Falling Through the Cracks
by CrlkSeasons
Summary: Tom's downhill journey during the missing months between resigning from Starfleet and meeting up with the Maquis.
1. Chapter 1

"It is what happened after Tom left Starfleet that puzzled me the most … somehow Tom slipped through the cracks. "Matters of Discipline – Kathryn Janeway

"After I was kicked out of Starfleet, I let myself drift. It was pretty much downhill all the way." Lessons Learned from Loneliness – Tom Paris

My season five/six stories are having a short rest. This story insisted on dancing around inside my head. It wouldn't go away. After 'Admiral, Father, Dad,' I realized that there was another story to be told. I still needed to reconcile the caring Admiral Paris from the end of Voyager with the man who apparently stood by while Tom's life spiraled downhill and he ended up in prison.

Falling Through the Cracks

Chapter 1

When Tom Paris was little, he'd often sit by the front door to wait for his dad to come home. As soon as Owen Paris walked in Tom would jump up and ask, "Was today a good day or a bad day?"

Owen always considered the question seriously. Then he'd answer. "Now that I'm home, it's a good day."

That was a long time ago. Owen's relationship with his son had changed a lot since then,

Owen Paris stood beside his office window studying the view. He expected to see that it had changed. Buildings should be crumbling, the greenery in the common, withered and yellow. So much else in his life had fallen apart.

Yesterday, Owen and his wife had attended Tom's hearing. They'd known what the decision would be before it even began. Starfleet Command had to be able to trust the word of its officers. Tom had lied. Tom had to go.

Owen Paris had faced many challenges in his life, endured tough times. You didn't make it to the rank of admiral without being resilient. His capture and torture by the Cardassians was only the most painful of many trials. Owen had survived even this. With time and hard work he had made it back from that unspeakable horror.

But what had happened yesterday - that was beyond anything that he had ever expected to have to face. It was worse because it had happened to his son. It had happened to Tom. Yesterday had been a very bad day.

Owen tried to make sense out of the incomprehensible reality facing him. He reviewed his own actions to see what he might have done to contribute to the situation.

When Tom was attending Starfleet Academy, Owen had been so proud of himself for keeping his distance from Tom. Owen now remembered the many times he had summoned Tom to his office and given him unsolicited advice about what courses to take. Owen shook his head. He should have known better. He'd seen his brother Cole stifled by the weight of the Paris legacy. It was only when Cole was on the Stargazer under the command of Captain Jean-Luc Picard that he finally blossomed into the officer everyone assumed that he was capable of being.

Owen would never go so far as to say that he was responsible for Tom's choices at Caldik Prime. That would be stretching the facts. Tom was a man. He was responsible for his own decisions. Nothing could change that. But Owen could see that his interference hadn't helped. Tom should have been free to make his own decisions. Owen should have allowed him to make his own mistakes and to learn from them.

Owen couldn't undo the past. But he could fix his mistakes. He intended to step aside so that Tom could finally make his own decisions and live his own life.

Owen intended to make sure that Starfleet's attention was on Tom, not on Tom's father. He had attached a note to Tom's file informing the transition services department that there was no need for them to take it upon themselves to keep him up to date on the details of his son's program. Tom's case was a private matter and was to be treated privately.

Owen had already discussed this with his wife, Julia. She had her doubts. But the media circus that feasted on the story of the disgraced admiral's son helped to change her mind. She could see how the Paris name only made everything harder for Tom. He had enough to deal with without that extra pressure.

Starfleet would provide the counseling that Tom needed. The fact that Tom had come forward with the truth meant that there was a chance to salvage his career. But first he'd have to face up to the reasons why he'd lied in the first place. There were also leftover issues from the accident at Caldik Prime. Tom still hadn't dealt with the full reality of those events. When Tom was better they could move on. Tom could start over again.

This morning Owen planned to meet with Tom to explain all this to him. Owen hoped that it would relieve some of the pressure on Tom if he knew that his father was finally going to let him have his own space.

Across the admiralty common, other prominent buildings shared the light and airiness of the open square. Most of the prestigious departments in Starfleet were clustered around green squares like this one. Less prominent departments were housed in utilitarian buildings farther away from the center of power.

The Civilian Transition Services, or CTS, was one such department. It served the needs of Starfleet personnel who were leaving Starfleet to return to civilian life. Some clients made a smooth transition out of Starfleet. Other cases were more complicated. Some clients needed ongoing support. A Starfleet career was a major commitment. It was not easy to leave it behind.

CTS supplied various services and provided accommodations for clients. In one, now infamous, case a client stayed in residence for over five years. After that, CTS accommodations were redesigned to be less comfortable. CTS wanted to encourage clients to move on and leave the nest. Accommodations at CTS were now purely functional, more like sleeping compartments than rooms.

Like many service departments, CTS was staffed with personnel who had entered Starfleet expecting to live lives of adventure out among the stars. Instead they'd ended up in mundane office jobs. The problem was that among the 'best and the brightest' some were better and brighter than others. There were not enough ship postings for all academy graduates and even fewer promotions to captain or admiral.

On a lower floor at CTS, one disappointed ensign bit his tongue when his Bolian co-worker reemerged from their shared toilet facilities. He was relieved when she headed off for her break. Sharing a bathroom with a Bolian was a trial for human sensibilities. Ensign Kravik kept most of his caustic comments to himself.

He hadn't always been so circumspect. In his academy days, Kravik had joyfully dubbed Admiral Paris's son 'Admiral Junior'. Kravik was convinced that this nickname had cost him the Exeter posting that went to Admiral Paris's son and left him stagnating at CTS. Kravik firmly believed that _he_ was the one who deserved the Exeter posting. Nothing could convince him otherwise.

In reality, there'd been no injustice. He'd sabotaged his own career opportunities. 'Admiral Junior' was the least damaging of the many malicious nicknames that eventually came to the attention of his superiors. They decided that a secondary posting was the best placement for an officer who clearly did not know how to play nicely with others.

The truth behind his situation did not stop Ensign Kravik from gloating over the fate of the person whose name was on the file he was processing. "Thomas Eugene Paris, how the mighty have fallen!"

Paris's requisition for services was fairly routine. The recommended counseling period was longer than usual, but nothing extraordinary. Kravik searched for the smallest room available to assign to Paris during his stay at CTS.

Scanning down the list of recommended services. Kravik found an attachment from Admiral Paris instructing the department to respect the privacy of his son's file.

Building on his personal grievance and his assumptions about how influence greased wheels in Starfleet, Kravik interpreted this to mean that the admiral intended to handle his son's transition period privately. Starfleet's services obviously weren't good enough for blue bloods. It seemed that the mighty rated a softer landing than ordinary folk got when they fell.

Kravik made the necessary adjustments and cancelled the requisition for CTS services. There were no instructions about where to forward the file. Kravik decided that the best course of action was to set up a default holding file. Its contents would remain secure until Tom Paris or his family got around to issuing instructions on where to send the file.

By the time Kravik's Bolian colleague returned from her break, the changes were all in place.

"Anything exciting happen while I was away?"

Kravik was telling the truth when he said, "It was pretty quiet. There's nothing much going on around here." It would have been a lot more fun if the Paris file hadn't slipped through his fingers.

Nobody ever said that Starfleet was perfect.

In his room on the other side of the grounds of Starfleet Headquarters, Tom was packed and ready to move on. He had nothing to do for the moment but wait. He'd thought about calling his mother. He got as far as retrieving her access code. The code was an inconvenience and a nuisance. But with more and more protests over the terms of the treaty with the Cardassians, Starfleet had decided to step up security for senior officers and their families.

Tom had stared at the screen. He couldn't think of anything to say to his mother. He couldn't come up with anything that would fool her into thinking that he was fine. He decided that it would be better to wait until he was settled into his quarters at CTS. He'd make a few jokes about the coziness of the room. That would distract her – a little. He didn't want her to worry.

Yesterday after the hearing, his father had stood staring at him, judging him, probably finding him wanting. Tom had hugged his mother and then left the hearing venue. He was taken to a small room where an officer wearing a mask of neutral distain removed the pips from Tom's collar. He gave Tom his discharge records and a copy of the procedures that Tom was to follow to begin his transition process.

The instructions were quite detailed. Tom was to remain in his assigned quarters until the next morning. An officer would escort him to Civilian Transition Services where he would be interviewed, assigned a counselor and a room. He could live elsewhere if he preferred. It was recommended that he use CTS facilities. Once he finished counseling and received a clean bill of health…. At that point the words blurred and Tom's brain stopped processing information. He saved the rest until this morning.

Tom had been so tired. He'd spent so long with the heavy weight of guilt strapped to his back. He'd expected to feel lighter when he put the weight down, when he confessed. It didn't turn out that way. All he felt was exhausted. Last night, all he wanted to do was sleep. He lay awake all night.

Tom was fidgety this morning, full of nervous energy. If he wasn't going to call his mother, maybe he'd check to see how many more of his acquaintances had blocked his name from their call list. Many had done so already, in order to distance themselves from him. Tom didn't expect anything different, not from them. Those Tom counted as personal friends were off-world, assigned to starships, – or they were dead.

Tom pushed that thought away. He swiveled in his chair to stare at the uniform that he'd draped across the foot of the bed. The uniform was the standard two-piece, jacket and trousers. They were made of the same material that he had worn since his days at the academy. It was virtually impossible to wrinkle. Every year some cadet tried to find a new way to make a permanent crease in the material, usually after a late night party and usually using a roommate's uniform for the experiment. No one had yet succeeded.

The long sleeved sweater that was worn underneath the jacket was resting beside it on the bed. Each sweater was the same shade of grey. Starfleet didn't accept any variations in grey. The sweaters had small, raised collars to hold rank pips. This collar was bare.

Tom didn't know what he was supposed to do with the uniform. There was nothing in the instructions that covered that. So much for Starfleet thoroughness! Was he supposed leave it or take it with him?

Tom had worn uniforms for years. He'd worn this uniform to the hearing. He'd worn it back to his room. He'd never wear it again.

Tom had had spent years pushing back against the pressure on him to become the latest in a long line of Parises in Starfleet. There were times when Tom had resented everything to do with a Starfleet uniform. Now, that he couldn't wear the uniform anymore, he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Tom had a lot of time ahead of him to figure that out. He had a lot of other stuff to figure out too. Anyone who'd lived with his crazy dreams couldn't just forget them and move on. So he'd listen to the Starfleet counselors. Maybe he'd even talk to them. When he was done, maybe then he'd know what he wanted to do with his life. He might even apply to the Federation Naval Patrol like he'd always wanted.

A buzzer sounded. It took Tom a minute to realize that the sound came from the door. He stood up, put his packed bag on the chair and opened the door. One more Starfleet officer with a blank expression stood there holding a PADD. Tom fought back an urge to joke about leaving a trail of PADDs behind him. This officer didn't look like he had a sense of humor. "I'm all packed," Tom told him instead. "I'll get my bag and we can head over to CTS."

"We're not going to CTS. You're to report to Admiral Paris's office. He wants to see you," the expressionless face told him.

The last thing Tom wanted right now was to listen to one of his father's lectures. "Well I don't want to see Admiral Paris. One of the advantages of being kicked out of Starfleet is that I don't have to see any admirals if I don't want to. So take me over to CTS and let me get settled into my wonderfully spacious quarters." Tom knew all about the accommodations at CTS.

The face frowned. "That's been cancelled. My orders are to take you to the admiral's office and that's where we're going," he stated firmly. "The admiral is taking responsibility for your transition out of Starfleet."

Tom's pent up stress exploded in a burst of anger. "Are you kidding? Don't I get a say? What do I have to do around here to get away from him? Don't I even get to mess up my own life by myself?"

The officer didn't answer or make any kind of response. It was as if Tom's questions were beneath his notice. Tom gave up, grabbed his bag and followed his guide out the door.

His escort delivered Tom to the admiral's office and left. Nicole, the admiral's executive assistant, came around from behind her desk to greet Tom. She smiled warmly at him. Nicole had been with Admiral Paris for a long time. She'd known Tom since he was a boy. It was Tom who had first referred to her as his father's secretary. The title had stuck. It was now a kind of private joke between Nicole and the admiral.

"You can go on in," Nicole told Tom. "Your father is waiting for you."

Tom felt awkward about carrying his bag of belongings into the meeting. "Can I leave my things out here?" he asked.

"I'll keep your bag behind my desk," Nicole offered. She was puzzled though. "Why did you bring it with you?" She would have thought that he'd prefer to drop his bag off at his lodgings at CTS before coming over.

Tom grimaced. He assumed that she meant he should have sent his bag on ahead to the Paris home. "I didn't have much time," he explained.

Nicole nodded sympathetically. Admiral Paris's 'requests' for meetings tended to carry the weight of an urgent command.

Tom checked what was left of his temper. He steeled himself and entered his father's office. "You wanted to see me?" Tom kept his tone as even as possible. He'd give his father a chance to explain what he had planned and then see what options were open to him.

An admiral's office isn't designed for informality. Owen stood beside his window so he wouldn't put Tom at a disadvantage by meeting with him while sitting behind his desk. Owen thought that Tom looked very tired, worn down. He had noticed the same thing the day before, at the hearing. "Well, Thomas, I can see that I don't have to ask you how you are doing."

Something in that simple statement rubbed against Tom's frayed nerves. His father had taken over, again, and cancelled his Starfleet transition program. Now, he knew how Tom was feeling without even asking him. Against his better judgment, Tom snapped. "Maybe you _should_ ask me how I feel. It's just possible that you don't have all the right answers."

Owen frowned. He wasn't used to junior officers speaking to him in that tone of voice. He had to remind himself that Tom wasn't Starfleet anymore. He was a civilian. Owen decided to forgive the outburst and start over again. "I can see how you could take what I said the wrong way. That's one of the reasons that I wanted to see you today. I think that it will be good for you to have some time away from me."

Tom was confused. His CTS program was cancelled, but he wasn't going home? He was supposed to go away somewhere? Go where? What the hell was going on? Tom tried to make sense out of this. "When you say 'time away', what exactly did you have in mind?"

"I'm stepping back to made sure that you have the space you need to live your own life." Owen expected Tom to be pleased about that. He was caught by surprise when Tom reacted angrily.

"You mean you dragged me all the way over here just to tell me that you're cutting me loose?"

"Don't put words in my mouth, Tom. What I'm saying is that I now see that being tied so closely to me and to the Paris name has been more of a hindrance than a help to you. It will be good for you to break away from that, to find your own way."

"So I'm not good enough for the vaunted Paris name anymore, is that it? How far do you want me to go to 'break away'? Is being out on the streets far enough away from you?"

Owen was rapidly losing his patience. The rooms provided by CTS might be basic. But living there could hardly be described as being out on the streets. "You're exaggerating. Many people start out with less than you have, and are stronger for it. This is an opportunity to make something of yourself. I'm disappointed to hear you complain this way."

What Tom understood from his father's speech was that when he walked out the door, he was going to be homeless, jobless and alone. He had never been that alone before. Roughing it for a survival course was one thing. That was an adventure. This wasn't. This was life.

Nonetheless, he wasn't going to waste his time asking his father to reconsider his decision. "You're right," Tom said. The sarcasm in his voice was obvious. "I've heard that on some planets they don't even have streets to sleep on."

Owen turned his back. He didn't want to lose his temper. Tom was over-dramatizing the situation, acting like one the characters in the old stories that he loved so much. "I'm sorry that you're taking it this way, Tom. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to talk to you today. I think it will be better for both of us if you leave now."

Tom couldn't think of anything else to say. He mustered as much dignity as he could, turned, nodded to Nicole in the outer office, grabbed his bag and left. He found his way to the exit and began the long walk off Starfleet grounds.

Nicole could tell that the meeting hadn't gone well. She would prefer not to disturb the admiral right now. Unfortunately, the information that she had just received was time sensitive and couldn't wait. She signaled through to the inner office. A very tired voice answered, "Yes, Nicole. What is it?"

"Admiral, security has sent you new access codes for your family's communication system."

"Again?"

"A media reporter got through to Admiral Hayes' wife and badgered her to give him her husband's reaction to the latest Maquis activity. Security wants to prevent any further incidents. New codes are set to take effect at noon today."

"My wife won't be happy. This doesn't give her, or my daughters, much time to notify their friends about the new codes. But I guess it has to be done. I'll send the family codes over to Tom at CTS. Remind me send him updates if they change the codes again."

"I'll be sure to do that, Admiral."

"Thank you, Nicole." Admiral Paris sat down behind his desk to try to bring some order back into his day.

Tom found a bench in the city and sat down there. He couldn't believe what had just happened. His father thought so little of him that he didn't even want to be around him. His father didn't think he was good enough to be anywhere near Starfleet. Why else would he cancel his Starfleet transition program and send him away? Tom put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth, trying to think.

San Francisco was a Starfleet city. Tom didn't know anyone around who wasn't connected to Starfleet in some way. He already knew he'd get nowhere trying to get help from any of his Starfleet 'friends'. He was on the outside now, with not enough credits to get away.

Tom stopped rocking. There was no way he was asking his mother for funds. He wouldn't put her, or his sisters, in the middle of this. He had enough credits with him to access local communications and local transport. He'd have to find a way to get enough credits to get to the one place where he was sure he could stay. He wasn't helpless. He'd worked hard on that survival course, even if his father had only given him a B-minus. He just needed to think this through.

Tom checked for the nearest travelers' center. Sometimes travelers got to San Francisco without their bags and needed a few things to tide them over. Tom found what he was looking for and headed over there. By the time he was finished, Tom had sold most of his clothes. He'd also traded his top quality bag for a smaller version and gotten extra credits to make up the difference. He now had enough to access the long distance transportation system, It was still early enough in San Francisco to call Marseille and reach Sandrine before she closed for the night.

Sandrine took his call. Tom didn't realize until he let go of the breath he'd been holding that that he'd had any doubt that she would.

"Tom, chéri, I've seen what the media has had to say. It is not good for you, is it? I hoped that you would call me."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid that things are even worse than I expected. Sandrine, I need a place to stay. I have some credits to pay for rent. But I don't have a lot, not right now. As soon as I get a job I …"

"Do not concern yourself with that. You have enough funds to get here? Do you need me to come for you?"

"I can make it. I sold some things. I'll tell you all about it later."

."Of course. I will make a room for you."

"This means a lot to me. I don't know if I can ever explain just how much."

"Shhhh, it is nothing. You are coming now?"

"I have one other call to make and then I'll come."

Now that he had a place to stay Tom felt better about calling his mother. She'd want to know where to reach him. Tom entered her access code. He schooled his face into a more cheerful, confident expression and waited for the call to go through.

But instead of his mother's face, a short message scrolled across the screen. "Invalid code - access denied." The words looped, repeated, and then looped again.

Tom stared in disbelief. He didn't think for a moment that his mother would refuse to speak to him. There was no way she could change her code. Something like that could only be done by someone with access to Starfleet systems, someone like his father.

Tom picked out the individual letters as they glided across the screen. He reformed the letters into words and read them over and over and over, 'Invalid … denied'. The words were a sentence as well as a judgment. Tom sat for a long time. He finally realized that he had to touch the screen in order to terminate the call. He reached out and erased the link with his past.


	2. Chapter 2

Falling Through The Cracks

Chapter 2

Tom settled into a routine at Sandrine's. Every morning he sent out job applications. He was hopeful in the beginning. He even sent an application to the Federation Naval Patrol. He didn't think that he'd be accepted. But he wouldn't know for sure if he didn't try.

Over time, Tom's optimism waned. Without a counselor's report verifying his readiness to resume piloting, those jobs were out of reach. More than that, no one in any related field would take a chance on him with the 'counseling completion pending' note attached to his qualifications.

Tom discovered the world of red tape when he looked into retraining. He ran into yet another wall when he tried to arrange his own counseling. In bureaucratic terms he was already _in_ counseling. Tom didn't make any headway arguing that point.

Every day Tom searched the city of Marseille for work. He took any job he could get. He'd get a day's work here, another day's work there. The jobs might not be anything to brag about. It was still honest work.

In between, Tom helped out at the bar. He made enough to cover his rent. That was only because Sandrine didn't charge him the going rate for the room. Tom knew that. But she wouldn't take more from him. If he ran short of funds, she just added the charges to his bill.

Tom wouldn't accept credits from Sandrine. There was a line in his mind between owing money on his bill and sponging off Sandrine by accepting funds from her. He had drawn the line and he stuck to it.

At the end of each day Tom came back to Sandrine's bar and read through the rejection notices that came back to him.

Sandrine asked him why he put himself through it.

"I have to," he told her.

"But why?"

"Because it's no more than I deserve," he explained grimly.

"Ahh, chéri, you know that is not true."

"Sure, sure. I'm a real prize! Everybody knows that. That's why they're all lining up to hire me." Tom went back to his rejection notices. He made himself read every one.

One night Tom received his official rejection from the Federation Naval Patrol. Tom told himself that it was only what he'd expected. It hurt anyway. After he read this rejection notice, Tom shuffled over and carefully placed his message PADD on the counter. Sandrine's regular barman, Jean-Louis, was on duty serving customers.

"Jean-Louis, my friend. Tonight marks the demise of the last of my childhood illusions," Tom said grandly. "That is an occasion worth celebrating in style, don't you think? Let me have a bottle of champagne. Put it on my tab, will you?"

"Are you sure, Tom?"

"Absolutely! A bottle of champagne and one glass."

"All right. I hope that you know what you're doing."

Jean-Louis picked out a bottle and opened it for Tom. Tom parked himself at the end of the counter and poured himself a glass. He held it up and made a toast. "Here's to fools who believe in heroes in white hats and in sailing off to save the world!" He downed his drink in one gulp and poured another.

By the time he finished the bottle Tom was in a more somber mood. He made no more toasts. He did order another bottle. Jean-Louis gave up asking him if he really wanted more. He just convinced him to switch to a less expensive wine.

When Sandrine returned from her visit to a friend, the bar was quiet and Tom was passed out in a chair at the side of the room. "Well, what is this?" she demanded of Jean-Louis.

"He wanted a drink," he explained.

"And for that you let him get drunk?" she asked angrily.

"He needed to get drunk." Jean-Louis pointed to the rejection notice Tom had left on the counter.

Her anger subsided as she read. "Ah well. Perhaps you are right. Make yourself useful then. Help me to get him upstairs."

Together they managed to half drag, half carry Tom to his room. They got his shoes off and laid him on the bed, making sure he was sleeping on his side so that he wouldn't choke if he vomited in the night.

Sandrine put a basin on the floor beside his bed in case he had enough control to aim. She placed some towels under and around the basin in case he couldn't aim. She turned off the light and they left Tom to sleep it off.

Tom had a new dream that night. Ghostly uniforms with obscured faces stood around him, silent, waiting. One of them broke into a harsh, laugh like a demented clown from some old horror movie. Another and another joined in until Tom was pounded from all sides with demonic laughter.

Tom jolted into wakefulness. His hands were shaking. His body was covered in sweat. He trembled in the cold and the wet. His stomach heaved and a good quantity of half digested liquid spewed over the edge of the bed.

Jean-Louis helped Tom to clean up in the morning.

Sandrine wouldn't talk to Tom for days.

Tom tried to apologize while he was sweeping up in the bar. She shrugged him off and kept working behind the counter. Tom stopped sweeping. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

Sandrine looked at him then. "No." She finished stacking the glasses she was putting on a shelf. "It is not the floor or the linens that anger me," she told him. You are a fool if you drink your life away. I will not help you to be a fool. There will be no more alcohol put on your bill. None! Do you understand me?"

Tom nodded and resumed his sweeping.

After that Tom stopped sending out jobs applications. He still went out every day to find casual work. If he couldn't find anything he stayed close to the bar, doing what he could to help.

Tom's old dreams came back. His dead friends didn't wear ruined faces. They came to him as they had been in life. In some ways that was worse. They sat and stared at him and didn't let him rest.

When he had extra credits, Tom bought himself a glass of the bar's least expensive wine. Sometimes he had enough for two glasses. He never insulted Sandrine by bringing in a cheap bottle from outside. Sandrine sat with him so he wouldn't get into the habit of drinking alone. Tom didn't know what he would have done if he didn't have her there to talk to.

Across the ocean in San Francisco, Owen Paris was composing his latest message to Tom. It was harder and harder for him to write these messages when he hadn't received a reply to any of them. It was a long time since he had discussed anything except Starfleet and family with Tom. Julia covered most of the family news in her messages to Tom. Owen was running out of ideas for his one-way conversations.

Owen had hoped for more than this from his son. He was disappointed for his own sake. He was angry for Julia's sake. Owen could understand Tom not wanting to communicate with him. He could not understand why Tom refused to even acknowledge the supportive messages that his mother regularly sent to him.

Owen did his best to be patient. During his own healing he had gone through long periods when maintaining a facade of normalcy for the sake of his family was almost more than he could bear. There were many times when all he wanted was to be left alone. Owen told Julia that this was probably what Tom was going through now. Owen reassured her that Tom would be fine. It just took time. Owen hoped that it wouldn't take too much longer.

Once Tom completed his counseling, things would be different. Tom would start over. He could get a job flying with one of the groups that did contract work for Starfleet. From there, he could work his way back into Starfleet if he wanted. It would take time for him to repair his reputation and regain Starfleet's trust. He couldn't be an officer, not right away. He'd have to start off as a crewman and work his way up.

Owen didn't see the irony in making these plans for Tom after all his talk about Tom having his independence and making his own decisions. Owen had been an admiral for a long time. When he gave orders, they were obeyed. He was used to making decisions for other people. It was a habit that was not easy for him to break.

Meanwhile, the admiral's message, together with the one from his wife, sped through the communication network and ended up in a secure file where it joined all the other messages that had been sent to Tom. Ensign Golell was no longer working at CTS. Ensign Kravik had gone too. The replacement personnel didn't pay any attention to the file. It was not their business to stick their noses into a file marked 'personal' and 'private'. The file rested undisturbed and time continued to pass.

By now the story of Tom Paris had faded from the news. People found other scandals to satisfy their hunger. Most had lost interest in the disgraced admiral's son. So, when Jean-Louis told Tom that there was a man at the bar who wanted to see Tom Paris, Tom was mildly curious and came down from his room. The man waiting at the bar looked like a tourist on the hunt for local color.

"You're Tom Paris?"

"That's right. Have a good look at the Starfleet reject. It's part of the service at Sandrine's."

"I'm here to offer you a job."

Gears shifted, wheels ground to a halt and Tom took a real look at the man speaking to him.

He wasn't French. That much was certain. Tom had an idea that the man was older than he looked. His skin had a bluish tinge to it that Tom couldn't place. The reddish-brown of his hair made a striking contrast to his skin. He wasn't Andorian or Bolian, or any of the Federation races that Tom knew of that had similar skin coloring.

"My name is Garif. You would not be familiar with my people. We are not regular visitors. My government is on friendly terms with your Federation. But we are not members. My employer came to Earth to visit the wine country north of here. I know it was a long way to come for such a reason. You must understand that my employer's family is very wealthy. They will sometimes insist on their little whims. However, it has been unwise to come this far. There is always the danger of kidnappers, you see.

Tom had to wonder why Garif was giving him this information about his employer's personal business. What kind of job did he have in mind?

"I see that you are wondering how any of this is relevant to you. We have lost one of our pilots. He was charmed by the attractions of your planet and wished to stay. We need a replacement for the journey home. We pay our crew well. Would you be interested?"

The job sounded ideal. It gave Tom virtually everything that he could hope for. That's probably why he suspected that there had to be a catch. "Why me? You must know that my qualification records aren't in order. You can get an accredited pilot easily enough."

"We are in somewhat of a hurry. This will be a long journey and we are not planning on a quick return to this part of space. You are highly skilled and you are available."

"Even with the accident on my record?"

"We are not naïve about such matters. My employer's family is well connected, even here. We examined the official record and see nothing that leads us to believe that you would not be able to handle the job. There is also the fact that your own family has such strong Starfleet connections. You know something about diplomacy."

For the sake of his immediate employment future, Tom restrained himself from laughing at the man's last comment.

"We pay our crew well for their discretion as well as for their skills. My employer does not appreciate having details of these private trips being shared with family back home. When we do return home, my employer can put in a good word for you and clear up the problem with your qualifications. You'll be able to get regular work flying."

To be able to fly again - that sold it as far as Tom was concerned. Even if the offer wasn't as rosy as is sounded, he'd still be off planet where he should have a better chance of picking up other work as a pilot.

"Exactly where would we be going?" he asked.

The stranger coughed. "We prefer not to discuss that information in public places. My employer wishes to avoid attracting attention."

Tom eyed him suspiciously.

"My employer is being rather indiscreet," the man apologized.

Tom made his decision. "I'll want to discuss it with a friend. But I'm almost sure it's a go."

"We need an answer by this afternoon. My employer plans to leave the day after tomorrow."

"I understand. How can I reach you?"

"I will return at fourteen hundred of your hours. If you are coming, come with me then." The man finished the drink he had been nursing, stood up and left the bar.

Sandrine wasn't happy about the offer. She reminded him that the information that he was given was rather vague. That _was_ true. It did give Tom reason to pause. But when Garif returned at the designated time, Tom had his bag packed and left with him.

Garif took Tom to a hotel in Dijon where others on the ship's crew were lodged. The hotel was well appointed, convenient to the center of town, with very good food. Almost all of the crewmembers staying there had the same bluish skin that Garif had. Only one of two of them belonged to other species. There were no other humans.

Although Garif's employer was staying with a small entourage at a different hotel, Tom soon got wind of them in more ways than one. Tom was walking through the old part of town when he sighted a tall man with the unmistakable physical features of Garif's people. The man had an over-bearing manner with an air of self-importance. He pushed his way forward, forcing others to give way. Attentive ladies accompanied him. One of the ladies tripped along, hanging onto his arm. She was the only one he paid any attention to. When they passed by, Tom gagged on the smell of perfume that trailed after the ladies. It was almost strong enough to penetrate the very stones on the street.

It wasn't long before Tom heard more complaints around town about other kinds of bad odor created by the group. They seemed intent on living up to every stereotype of the obnoxious tourist. They made loud, disparaging remarks about everything. They criticized the souvenir jars of mustard in the shops, the glazed tiles on the roofs of the old buildings and even the cobblestones on the streets. Tom overheard people telling the story of the ignorant tourists who brought drinking glasses with them to use in their wine tasting sessions. They made a vulgar scene when they were asked to either put the glasses away or to leave.

After hearing several other unflattering stories about his employer, Tom was relieved that no one outside of the crew had yet connected him with their ship. He took refuge in the Musee des Beaux-Arts, which fortunately was still free. He thought about reconsidering his decision and promptly rejected the idea. He had to be practical. He was only going to work for these people for a while. Outside Starfleet people wore different shades of grey. He didn't have to like them in order to work for them.

Tom felt better when he returned to his hotel. The crewmembers staying there didn't act anything like their employer. They chatted with Tom and with each other about sight seeing and shopping. Tom relaxed and permitted himself a glass of wine, - just one though. It wasn't a Romanee-Conti estate wine. But it was a nice house wine and it was on his new employer's account.

When the ship was ready to leave, Tom almost laughed at his employer's idea of avoiding attention. The man and his companion wore long ostentatious robes that covered them from head to foot. The entourage that accompanied them drew even more attention by fluttering around the pair. Tom thought that if they'd really wanted to avoid notice they could have dressed in mechanics' overalls and slipped onto the ship with the crew. Later, when Tom learned more about operations on the ship, he began to suspect that a lot of their public displays of buffoonery were put on as a distraction.

Three weeks after Tom left, a former crewmate from the Exeter arrived on Earth for a visit with his wife's family. Tom had forgotten some things on the ship. There wasn't much, a sweater, a vest, a model car and a chip with a set of what Tom called 'B movies'. Lieutenant Zhong brought them with him to return them to Tom.

Zhong first asked for Tom at CTS. The CTS officer instructed him to check with Admiral Paris. The admiral's executive assistant gave him directions on how to access Tom's message system and sent him back to CTS. She also sent a polite message to Commodore Cordeiro's office requesting her staff's assistance to resolve Lieutenant Zhong's puzzling difficulty with locating Tom Paris.

Zhong really didn't have to go back to CTS. He could have put the bag into storage and sent a message to Tom's in-box, informing him of the bag's location. Zhong wasn't about to do that. He was seriously annoyed. It riled him that he had brought Tom's bag all the way from the Exeter to Earth only to have this much trouble delivering it. He trudged back to CIS and plopped the bag on the reception desk.

"These things belong to Tom Paris. I've tried CTS. I've tried Admiral Paris. Nobody seems to know where he is. In fact nobody seems to know that he's missing. It seems strange to me that, in the twenty-fourth century, someone can go missing on Earth and nobody even knows about it. Since this department is supposed to be responsible for him, I'm going to leave this bag right on this desk until somebody gets off their ass and finds its owner!"

Nicole's quiet message from Admiral Paris's office was far less dramatic than Lieutenant Zhong's public outburst. It was, in its way, even more effective in shaking up the staff at CTS. The news that Admiral Paris didn't know where his son was sent alarm bells ringing throughout the department.

A hasty order went out to locate Tom Paris's file. It passed from office to office until it made its way to a normally sleepy corner of the building. Two young ensigns put aside their regular work to begin a search through the department's inactive files.

"What's this file that we're looking for?"

"Beats me! It was set up before my time. Remember, I only got here a few days before you did. I replaced Ensign Golell when she was posted to a ship. You came in when they gave Ensign Nickname a lateral transfer. I guess they did that so he wouldn't have to stay on in the same place after he was passed over again."

"Ensign Nickname?"

"That's what I call him. The jerk spent all his time thinking up cruel nicknames for people. You remember hearing about 'Admiral Junior', don't you?"

"Oh right! I remember that one from the academy."

"It was one of his milder ones. It's ironic now because I don't know of anybody who calls him by his real name. All you have to do is say 'Ensign Nickname' and everyone knows who you're talking about."

"What goes around comes around I guess."

"Anyway, the file we need to find was set up when he was here. Just keep looking. It has to be in the system somewhere."

"'It has to be somewhere.' Weren't those somebody's famous last words?"


	3. Chapter 3

Falling Through the Cracks

Chapter 3

The Fenai ship was sleek and fast. Afrinar was large enough to hold a sizeable crew. She was small and maneuverable enough to make planetary landings.

Tom shared piloting duties with one other pilot, Ronjin Tanima. She was thin and wiry with short-cropped hair. She was also one of the few others on board who were not Fenai.

Only two fully qualified pilots on board meant that duty shifts were long. In the quieter stretches of space, one of the flight assistants handled the helm. Tom and Ronjin's cabins were both close enough to the bridge that either one of them could be back on the bridge in seconds.

Ronjin talked piloting. She didn't talk about herself or anything else. Tom found that this was true of the rest of the crew too. They were sociable enough when on shore leave. They'd chat with him about their daily activities. But when they were on board, it was all business.

In one way, that suited Tom just fine. It meant that there was no need for him to rehash his own past. He felt no inclination to share the details of his sordid history. If a lack of real companionship made Tom lonely, - that was the price he paid to have a job. He learned to tolerate life on the ship.

The job wasn't what Tom had in mind when he'd dreamed about making a difference in the universe. But at least he _had_ a job. That counted as a plus. He quickly figured out that that it was Ilen who was his employer. Affri was the face of the ship in public. On the ship, he faded from view. The crew spoke only of 'The Lady'. Although she tittered and smirked, the crew treated her wishes as orders.

Tom preferred it when he was busy. When he had too much time on his hands, he thought about what it would be like if he had to spend the rest of his life settling for jobs like this - piloting private yachts for spoiled heiresses. His dead friends didn't seem to think much of this kind of future either. When they visited his dreams they stood beside his bed and shook their heads at him.

The ship made frequent stops and Tom got shore leave whenever they visited a planet. Only the maintenance and security crews stayed with the ship and even they rotated duties so that everyone got some leave.

Ilen, sought out pleasure planets. She and Affri spent their nights attending extravagant parties and their days shopping, sightseeing and finding new ways to offend the locals. At each stop the crew crammed the holds with more and more cargo. It was an awful lot for a so-called 'shopping spree'. At this rate they should be more worried about attracting pirates than kidnappers - if that ever really was a concern.

Garif brushed aside any of Tom's questions. "The Lady likes pretty things," was all he'd say.

Of course they visited Risa. Tom spent five days in luxurious accommodations. It felt wrong for him to be there. He didn't run into anyone he knew. He was glad about that.

The first couple of stops, Tom took all his possessions with him when he left the ship. After a close call with light fingers, he figured that the ship was more secure than any planet. After that he only took what he needed during his stay.

Tom couldn't make any sense out of the ship's flight path. They'd fly light-years in one direction. Then, after a short layover, they'd literally turn around and fly back to a planet they could have stopped at along the way.

Not every planet Ilen selected was filled with decadent pleasures. Ornau, for example, was a green and unspoiled world with few permanent structures. Temporary pavilions provided accommodation for visitors.

Tom loved it. It felt like he was on one of the camping trips he had taken when he was a child. There were cool streams and temperate lakes to swim in. Speckled sunlight filtered through tall, leafy trees to make soul-soothing patterns on the walking paths that wound beneath them. Tom breathed real air and the wind tickled his hair where it curled against his forehead. While others lounged in the pavilions, Tom explored the walks around the resort.

Tom was partway along one of the longer paths when he heard an uncharacteristic cry of distress, immediately followed by a child's voice.

"Oli! Oli! Come down. Please come down!"

A little girl was standing in a clearing to one side of the path. The dark scales on her back and arms caught the sunlight and redirected the light in sparkles of gold. A long white ribbon threaded through the ropey mane that trailed down her back. The girl was at the foot of a tree, calling up to a small ball of fur desperately clinging to one of the branches. The ball of fur emitted another plaintive screech, but stayed put.

Tom approached cautiously so he wouldn't alarm the girl or the fur puff he assumed was 'Oli'.

The girl wasn't in the least alarmed by his approach. She called out in relief. "Oh, thank goodness someone's come. My brothers made so much noise that they scared Oli up into the tree. Then they ran away. Now Oli won't come down to me. Can you help?"

Tom assessed the situation with the same care that he would use for any tactical mission. The furry creature looked much like a spotted tribble with ears and a tail. The branch that it was sitting on might be way above the girl's head. It was well within reach of his arms. But any creature that could scramble up a trunk as smooth as the one on that tree had to have sharp claws. The puff was scared and Tom was a stranger. Tom wasn't foolish enough to try to reach up and grab it.

Tom took off his jacket and shaped it into a comfy nest. He raised it and carefully positioned it in front of Oli. "Come on, little guy," he coaxed the furry pet. "Come on." Tom hoped that Oli had no immediate need to relieve itself.

Oli chirped a question.

The little girl crooned, "Oli, come. Come, Oli."

Oli stepped gingerly into the nest and curled into a tight ball. Tom slowly lowered the package of jacket and animal, taking care not to startle the pet. He held the jacket in front of the girl while she retrieved Oli and cradled him in her arms. Oli purred and nuzzled her shoulder.

"Thank you so much." The girl smiled up at Tom. Then she announced, "I've got to go now," and left.

As he watched the pair hurry off, Tom's face relaxed from its usual weary acceptance into a genuine smile. The warmth that he felt radiated outward and it lit up his face. He hadn't felt this good in a long time. He shook out his jacket, hitched it over his shoulder and turned to walk back to camp, whistling softly to himself.

A sudden movement in the trees caught his attention. Ilen was standing in the shadows, watching him.

Tom was young, healthy and male. Normally, he would be flattered by a beautiful woman's attention. Ilen's intense stare left him feeling cold. He dipped his head in the short bow that was expected of the crew. When his lifted his head again, she was gone.

After that encounter, Tom became more wary of Ilen. He noticed more of her little cruelties. While Ilen giggled and hung onto Affri with jeweled fingers, her sharp nails dug into his arm. She forced his shoulder down and twisted it when she spoke to him. When she noticed Affri smiling at one of the other ladies, Ilen immediately ordered her back to the ship where she stayed for the duration of their stopover.

Tom did his best to keep his distance from Ilen.

Ronjin left the ship the next stop after Ornau. Tom had no advance notice that she was leaving. She simply showed up in his cabin one day to say good-bye.

"I'm off here. Good luck the rest of the way. You're a good pilot."

Tom was surprised enough to ask questions he had avoided asking until now. "What's going on? Where are you going?

She shrugged. "This is my stop, that's all. This is where I got on. This is where I get off. There's another pilot waiting here to come back on board." She checked around to make sure that no one was listening before she went on. "They call this one a pilot! I wouldn't let him fly my kid's scooter."

It was the first that Tom had heard about her having children.

Ronjin realized how sharp she sounded and sighed. "To be fair. He's got the skills. No guts though, you know what I mean?"

Tom nodded.

She shook her head. "He's okay for the rules and regulations type of flying. I've been told that Ilen cares a lot about appearances and decorum when she's on her home world. Just make sure that you're at the helm for the tricky bits. That's all I have to say. I'll see you around sometime, My husband's waiting for me." Ronjin walked off the ship, threw her bags into a small ground car, motioned the driver over so she could sit at the controls and took off.

For some strange reason Tom felt like he used to when his father made him stay inside to study for the Academy Entrance Exam while everyone else got to go outside.

Back on Earth Admiral Paris was busy, as usual, when Nicole informed him that he had a call from Commodore Sharandeep Cordeiro. Nicole had a fine sense of which calls were important and which ones could wait. She could navigate the official Starfleet channels and knew her way around the unofficial ones too - better than almost anyone else at Starflleet Headquarters. Admiral Paris didn't question her judgment when she put through the call from the CTS department head.

"Sharandeep, what can I do for you? Is anything wrong with Tom?"

"We're not sure, Admiral. That's why I called. We received an inquiry from a Lieutenant Zhong who was trying to contact Tom. According to our files, Tom was transferred to private care the day after his release from Starfleet."

Owen noted the use of the euphemism 'release from Starfleet'. Something must be very wrong. "Which private care are you referring to? Where is he?"

Commodore Cordeiro shifted uncomfortably. "Our records say that transition services were transferred to private care with his family, at your specific request."

"I made no such request!"

"We're aware of that, Admiral. We've traced the service transfer back to a message from you requesting privacy for your son and his file. Someone who handled the file interpreted this as a request to transfer his whole file into private hands. We are presently investigating to find out how such a mistake could have been made."

"Commodore, while I am sure that it will be of great interest to everyone at Starfleet to know how such a mistake could be made, _my_ question remains. Where is my son?"

"We don't know, Admiral. That's why I wanted to talk to you. Do you have any idea where he could be?"

A few days after this conversation, Owen Paris made his way from the transfer station to one of the older streets in Marseille. He stopped in front of an establishment that, until now, had only been known to him by name. The door was glass and wood with a patina of age. It was as heavy as it looked.

Inside a woman sat waiting at one of the tables. She assessed the admiral with a cold and quelling glare. He had used similar tactics to put insubordinate junior officers in their place. It had been years since he had found himself on the receiving end. Julia had been angry when he'd told her what had happened to Tom. She hadn't made him feel, as this woman did, that his worth as a human was in question.

Owen walked over to the table. "I assume that I have the pleasure of addressing Madame … Sandrine? I apologize if I am being too informal. You didn't include a last name in your message and I've never heard Tom use one."

"It is Gaspard, Madame Sandrine will do for now. I doubt that we have a long acquaintance ahead of us."

"I see. Perhaps you are right. Madame, I don't know if my son is willing to see me. But I need to know if he's all right.

"Surely that is an unusual question for a father to ask a stranger about his son?"

"Madame, do not play games with me. Your message said that you would speak to me only if I came to Marseille. I came. Despite what you may think, my son is very important to me. Is Tom here? Do you know where he is?"

Owen sized up the woman in front of him in turn. Sandrine was a woman of uncertain age. She was a presence in the room. She had a confidence that said, "I am someone. I matter. I belong to myself. Make of that what you will."

She was beautiful, but not because of the features on her face. It was her air and her confidence in her identity as a woman that made her beautiful. Owen thought he understood what had drawn Tom to this place. He was wrong of course. But Owen thought he knew his son.

"Tom was here," she admitted. "He is not here now. Would you care to see the room where he stayed?"

"I …I'd like that. Thank you."

They walked up a short flight of stairs and around a corner to a door off to one side of the landing. The door was dark and worn. It looked like it was as old as the bar itself. Despite that, the unobtrusive key system that she deactivated was state of the art. Owen suspected that the whole bar was similarly equipped for security. She pushed open the door and stepped aside to let him enter.

The room was moderate in size, simply furnished in keeping with the period style of the building. The bed had plain, white sheets, a pillow at its head and a striped blanket neatly folded at its foot. There were two wooden, or pseudo wooden, chairs flanking the window and a chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room. That was all. There was no indication that anyone lived here, or had ever done so. Owen crossed to the chest of drawers and opened the first drawer. It was empty as were each of the others that he tried. The closet that he now noticed beside the bureau held nothing as well.

Owen turned to Sandrine who waited and watched him from beside the door. "Why did you bring me to see this room? There is nothing of Tom here."

"That says something too. Does it not?" Sandrine studied him closely. "It was, perhaps, a test. I do not know what to make of you. I did not really expect you to come. If you had not wanted to see the place where your son has lived all this time, I think I would not have cared to tell you what I have to say about him." Then she shrugged. "Come back downstairs. I think now we can talk."

They retraced their steps to the main room of the bar. Sandrine led Owen back to the table near the fireplace where they sat down.

"Tom stayed here many months. While he was here, he tried his best to find work. Finally, he left. I do not know for sure where he is. But I will tell you what I can. First, though, there is something more that you must see."

Sandrine got back up to search for something behind the bar. When she returned she was carrying a PADD that she placed on the table in front of Owen.

"Tom thought that he'd deleted all of these. I made copies that I kept. I do not know why. Maybe I knew that a day might come when you would need to see them."

"What are they?"

"They are the rejection notices that Tom received when he applied for work. You can see how many times he tried, how many times he had to hear that he was not accepted. They would not even take him for a retraining program because he was still listed under your family name and those programs are restricted to those who do not have access to other options. Tell me, why did you do that? If you intended to throw him out of your family, why did you keep him tied to your name?"

"I didn't _throw_ Tom out of the family. I would never do that. He's my son!"

"And yet you cut him off, left him on his own."

"I did no such thing! Tom was Starfleet. You may not understand what that means, but there have been Parises in Starfleet for generations. Starfleet has always taken care of its own. It took care of me when … I was ill. They were supposed to take care of Tom and provide him with all the things that he needed." Owen stared at the darkness of the unlit hearth. "Tom has always had to deal with being in my shadow. It put more pressure on him than I realized. After he had to resign from Starfleet, I thought it would be better to let him have his own space, to have a chance to find himself. I never intended to push him away."

"I see." Sandrine fingered the grain in the tabletop. "I did not show you these to give you needless pain. If you find Tom, you will need to understand what he has gone through all these months. It has changed him. He is no longer the same. I fear that he may change even more before you find him again."

"What do you mean?"

"The day that he was refused admission to the Federation Naval Patrol, Tom started to drink. He drank heavily that night and after that he drank whenever he could earn enough to pay for the wine. I refused to extend credit for drink. He was offered a job piloting a private ship. That was suspicious, I think. I was worried. But between drinking his life away and taking this job - there was not a good choice either way."

Sandrine sat back in her chair and sighed. "I can give you the name of the person who hired Tom and I can give you the name of the ship as it was registered in Dijon. I found that out for myself. I don't know if either one is accurate. Still, they may provide you with a lead. I am sorry, monsieur. I wish I could tell you more."


	4. Chapter 4

Falling Through the Cracks

Chapter 4

Ronjin was right about the Fenai pilot who took her place. Frid was more like a timid, blue Zeebee mouse than like any pilot that Tom had ever met. Frid squirreled himself away in Ronjin's old quarters and hid there from the rest of the crew.

Tom got called to the bridge for any of the 'iffy' maneuvers. He enjoyed the challenge. He just got tired of never getting a full night's rest. He could see why Ronjin would lose patience, having to 'share' piloting duties with Frid.

Tom had just left the bridge to make the short trip back to his quarters when Ilen stepped out of the turbolift with two of her attendants. Tom stood to one side to let her pass. He tried to hold his breath too. She had absolutely no regard for the impact of strong perfumes in a closed environment.

Instead of continuing on to the bridge, she stopped in front of Tom and rested her hand on his arm. She smiled up at him and giggled with that irritating laugh of hers. "So pretty! I watched you play, you know. You should come and play with me." She pressed her body against his.

Tom had never been this close to her before. There was an unpleasant odor that until now had been covered by her bath of perfume. For the first time Tom noticed the hint of green underlying her blue skin. None of the other Fenai had that green tone to their skin. For a second Tom had the strong impression of a serpent striking out at him. He instinctively took a step back.

Ilen's eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Tom tried to cover his misstep by making an overly formal bow to fill the space that had opened up between them. "My Lady, your humble servant would like nothing better than to join you. Alas, I am not worthy of such an honor and must remain bound by my duties." Tom added a small flourish to this speech and kept his head bowed.

Ilen withdrew stiffly and turned toward the bridge. Before she opened the door, she turned back to look at Tom once more. From the corner of his eye Tom could see her mask slip and an unyielding hardness take its place. He stared at the floor and pretended not to see. As soon as she was gone he ducked into his cabin to take stock of what had happened.

Tom knew enough about the ship to realize that the meeting was not a chance occurrence. She'd made him an offer and he'd just turned it down. He didn't know what this was going to mean for him.

A few minutes later Tom heard angry voices outside his door. After that, there was nothing.

Days passed with no other consequences from his encounter with Ilen. Tom was relieved when word came that they would soon be stopping at a planet. It would be good to get away from the ship for a while.

Frid was on duty when they approached the planet named Stone and he called Tom to the bridge. Frid was nervous about the landing. "The winds on Stone are dangerous. I wish we had Itta here. She usually handles this landing."

That was a name Tom hadn't heard before. "Who's Itta?"

Frid flinched guiltily when he realized that he had spoken out loud. "Oh, she's a pilot we use sometimes."

Frid's evasiveness made Tom curious. "Where is she now?"

"Um … the Lady was angry with her. She didn't come with us on this trip."

Tom took pity on Frid when he mentioned the Lady. Tom knew that it wasn't a good idea to get on her bad side and she might not like Frid talking about her this way. Tom dropped the subject. "What can you tell me about the planet?" Tom asked instead.

"We visit the city. There's only one. People come from all the neighboring systems to visit. The revenue generated here sustains the planet's entire economy."

"You said that the winds make landings dangerous. If it's dangerous to land here, why do people come?"

"The winds around the city aren't as bad as they are on the rest of the planet. That's why it was built where it was. A good pilot can get through. It's just that I can't seem to do it." Frid turned his face away in embarrassment. When he had a minute to compose himself, he continued. "The city takes advantage of the planet's winds. Not everyone can afford to hire the best pilots. It's isolated out here too, this close to the Cardassian border. The fact that it is difficult to reach makes it more attractive. It's exclusive."

"Like forbidden fruit," Tom commented.

"What?"

"I guess the universal translator doesn't do a good job with that one. Never mind. It's not important. Don't worry about the landing. I'll take care of it."

Frid was relieved and left the helm to Tom.

Stone was an apt name for the planet. It had dirt, rocks and apparently little else. The scans showed vegetation on the surface, but if there were plants growing down there they were the same browns and greys as everything else. The ship headed for the only splash of color around. The city fought back against the dingy gloom with gaudy colors and bright lights.

The winds surged through the planet's atmosphere like ocean currents. Tom could see why Frid had problems with them. He most likely tried to maintain a predetermined angle of descent. That wouldn't work here. The trick was to ride the winds to the surface.

Tom set Afrinar to surf the winds down. The ship touched down at the transport base, right on target. Tom was exhilarated by the ride and sorry that it was over. The crew secured the ship. In a reversal of the usual procedure, the crew began off-loading cargo. Tom and a small group of off duty crew took one of the ground transports into the city.

Someone had spent a lot of money to make the city look like a cheap carnival. There wasn't anything else cheap about it. Tom lifted his eyebrows at the rarities for sale in the shops. They were priced high enough to satisfy the ego of the most insecure snob. It was going to be one of those stopovers where it was best to eat at the hotel and have everything charged to his room and paid for by the ship.

Garif stopped by Tom's table later that evening with a glass of wine.

"Tom, you know about wines. I am thinking of buying some bottles for Ilen. Would you taste this wine and tell me what you think?"

It was the first time that Garif had made such a request. Tom couldn't think of any reason to refuse. "Sure, if you want me to."

Tom found the color and the bouquet acceptable. The taste was another matter. He couldn't understand why Garif had chosen this wine. It had an unpleasant chalky under-taste. "You might want to give this one a pass, Garif."

"You do not find it acceptable?'

"It has an under-taste."

"Are you certain?"

Tom took another sip to double check. "It's definitely there."

"I will defer to you judgment in this case. Thank you for assisting me. I will leave you alone now. It is getting late. No doubt you are tired."

Tom _was_ feeling tired. Battling the winds must have taken more out of him that he realized. He went up to his room and had the computer tone down the lights. It neutralized the screaming greens and overly bright yellows on the walls. He instructed the computer to set an early wake-up call and fell into bed. Tom slept through the night without dreaming.

In the morning he woke to the wake-up signal and made his way to the hotel dining room for an early breakfast. None of the others were down yet. Tom had no problem with that. He had a slight headache and took advantage of the relative quiet to have a peaceful meal.

About a half an hour later, when no one else from the crew had come downstairs, Tom started to feel uneasy. He picked up his glass of juice and strolled over to the information terminal to locate Garif's room to give him a call. The guest listing held many names. Garif's was not one of them. Tom checked the list again to make sure that he hadn't missed it. Then he realized that he hadn't come across the names of any of the crew.

Back on Earth, Starfleet also had a problem to deal with. It was one that Starfleet preferred not to have to admit to publicly.

"Admiral," Nicole's voice interrupted Admiral Paris. "Admiral Nechayev to speak with you." It didn't take a superior understanding of Starfleet intricacies to know that you should accept a call from Alynna Nechayev. There were very few who kept her waiting.

"Damage control already? Put her through, Nicole."

Admiral Nechayev's assistant was almost as efficient as Nicole. Alynna Nechayev's face appeared when Owen opened his screen. "Owen, Starfleet has asked me to convey our personal apologies for the unfortunate mix-up over your son's transition out of Starfleet."

"They're worried that someone in my family will go public, is that it?"

Alynna ignored his remark. "Naturally, we are all distressed that something like this could happen. A full investigation has been ordered into what went wrong and we are prepared to implement the appropriate recommendations."

Owen caught the loophole. "Setting up to cover their tracks," he commented. "It stinks, Alynna and you know it. People are going to ask how Starfleet managed to mess up so badly. They're going to want real answers."

"They might instead question why your son's family didn't catch the problem sooner and step in to help." It was a low blow. Alynna Nechayev wasn't afraid to use whatever tools were necessary to win a point.

Owen was tougher than that. "Maybe so, Alynna. That still doesn't absolve Starfleet of its responsibility for this screw-up, or of its responsibility toward my son. I will expect to receive a copy of the investigator's findings and to be kept informed about what Starfleet is doing to find and help my son."

"Of course," Admiral Nechayev recognized that they had reached an agreement and cut the connection. It was a tribute to her long-standing relationship with Owen Paris that she conceded as much as she did.

Tom didn't have the same kind of success on Stone. There was no Afrinar to be found anywhere at the city base. Tom didn't really expect that there would be. The fact that the crew had picked up another pilot and gone back to the ship last night - that pretty much told him everything that he needed to know. He didn't even have to be told that the pilot's name was Itta. Tom could have kicked himself for falling for the wine trick. He'd thought stuff like that only happened in old movies. At least they'd prepaid his bill.

Tom didn't bother stopping at the terminal's main entrance. He walked around to the side of the building where a door led directly into the base manager's office. It was Tom's only hope of finding where his ship had gone.

The office was small and surprisingly plain. The base manager was expecting Tom. "They stranded you here, did they? I thought that they might. Don't worry. It's happened before." The manager's smile was genuinely warm and sympathetic.

He was shorter than Tom. That wasn't much of a distinguishing characteristic. Many people were shorter than Tom. The base manager, though, barely made it past Tom's waist. He was on the pudgy side too. What was left of his hair was a mousey brown. The name on the sign on his desk was 'Dan'.

"Can I lodge a complaint?" Tom asked. "The rest of my stuff is still on board, my funds too."

Dan's smile disappeared. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. The Lady and her family do a lot of business around here. People won't take kindly to anyone making trouble for her."

Tom believed him. The 'shopping' that was unloaded from the ship probably bolstered the inventory of the shops in the city and earned everyone a handsome profit. He'd have to cut his losses and settle for what he could salvage. "All I have is a change of clothes and a few pocket credits," he explained. "I can't even afford a place to stay for the night."

Dan's voice was soothing. "Don't you worry. As I said, this has happened before. All you need to do is sign on to fly one of the regular routes out of here. We have strong laws here, and in the neighboring systems, about running out on debts. But, this is all set up. The locals will advance you credit. The route chiefs will divert what you owe from your pay."

Tom didn't want to explain, yet again, why that wasn't possible. He just handed over his disc and let Dan read the freeze on his status for himself.

Dan whistled softly. "I see. This does make a difference. I'm surprised Ilen let you fly her personal yacht."

"I'm a good pilot, one of the best," Tom answered with dignity. "It would be better if I could get things straightened out. But I can still get the job done!"

"Can you, then," Dan commented. "You're the one who brought the ship in, are you?"

"Yes. That was me."

"And are you so high and mighty that you only fly those expensive ships, or can you fly other models too?

"I can handle any ship that flies."

"It's not the shiny new ones that I'm talking about," Dan cautioned him.

Tom smiled. "That's even better. I've always been a history buff. I love the older models."

"Then I think I might have a job for you," Dan told Tom. "My wife is related to a group of farming families that live up north. They keep to themselves and don't ship much out. They use a shuttle to trade food and supplies among themselves. They're sort of like a co-op. You help me. I'll help you. It's that kind of arrangement. My wife's second cousin owns the farm that looks after the shuttle the group uses. Right now he's short a pilot. He might give you the job. Mind you, I can't guarantee that you'll get it. You'll have to go out there and speak to him. We tend to like to do things in person on Stone."

"Fair enough."

"I'll take you out after lunch. I can drop you off at the end of the road that leads to the farm. I can't take you all the way in. I won't have time to do that and get back to the base before dark. I'll be cutting it close as it is."

"I understand. I appreciate the offer to help."

A few hours later Tom was in a ground car speeding over the open plains, getting a scenic tour of kilometer after kilometer of bland grey soil and grayish brown rock. The winds picked up soil from the plains and blew it around, exposing expanses of barren rock. Clumps of grayish-green trees anchored some of the soil and created oases where native grasses huddled for protection.

"The farther north you go, the stronger the winds get," Dan explained.

"Why do people live out here?"

"There are hills ahead that provide some protection from the winds. The farmers set wind deflectors along the ridges and built their farms in the valleys. It's not for everyone, though. Not too many live this far from the city."

Dan slowed and stopped at the end of a side road that disappeared into the nearby hills. "This is as far as I take you. It's about an hour's walk. Wind deflectors are set up along this stretch of road. They'll keep you safe. Once you get to the hills the community deflectors take over."

Tom grabbed his meager belongings and got out of the ground car. "How will I know when I get there?"

"The road ends at Joh and Arna's farm. When there's no more road, you're at the right place."

"What if I don't get the job?" Tom really didn't want that to happen. He still had to ask the question.

"I'll be back this way in about three hours. If you don't get hired on, come to the end of the road and wait for me. Make sure that you're on time. I won't be coming out here again until the winds ease up. This far north, that can take months. Don't try to walk out on the plains during the windy season. You wouldn't survive."

Tom hitched his bag over his shoulder and started walking. It was more pleasant once he got into the protected valley between the hills. The grass was thicker and some berry bushes added variety to the vegetation. The bushes bore berries with colors so jarringly bright that it looked as if a child had taken red and orange crayons and smeared colors on the leaves.

Tom didn't know for sure how far he had walked. The road wove back and forth and almost doubled back on itself in places. He'd been walking for close to an hour when he heard voices up ahead.

Young girls carrying small baskets emerged from the bushes on one side of the road. They froze when they saw Tom. Then they quickly disappeared into another clump of berry bushes across the road. Tom waited until they had gone and resumed walking. When he came to the top of a small rise, he saw a wide valley with cultivated fields and a cluster of buildings nestled below.

Tom got a good view of the layout of the farm as he made his way down the slope. There was what he first thought was a stable on one side of the road. When he passed its open door he saw the nose of a beat-up shuttle housed inside. That at least confirmed the need for a pilot.

The farm buildings were compact and solid. The main farmhouse had the only extraneous feature, a verandah that stretched across the front and along two other sides of the house. Low buildings clustered behind a vegetable garden to the right of the house and two barns and smaller animal sheds sat off to the left.

The animals on the farm were close enough to their earth equivalents to be recognized using the old earth names. Cows swiped insects away with their tails and kept on with the serious business of eating. A couple of horses kept each other company in a fenced field off in the distance. Closer at hand, chickens and geese peeped and squawked to express their opinion of Tom.

Word of his arrival had gone ahead. A group of men and women came out to meet him. Two of them seemed to be in change. Tom guessed that they were Joh and Arna.

Tom stopped some meters away so they could look him over. "My name is Tom Paris," he said. "Dan told me that you might be able to use a pilot. My qualifications aren't in order so I'm stuck on Stone for a while. I could use the work."

The people behind Joh and Arna relaxed when Tom identified himself. Joh stepped forward. He was as compact and as solid as the farm. Straight black hair, brown eyes and broad calloused hands completed his no-nonsense appearance.

"We could use a pilot," he confirmed. "We're not big on formal qualifications out here. If Dan thinks that you can do the job, that's good enough for me. A man's word is what counts. You think you can do the job?"

"I'm sure I can."

Joh accepted this without further question. "We run supplies in and out to the other farms. Pretty much everything in or out has to go by shuttle, unless you want to take the slow way through the hills. My wife's brother was doing the flying for us. But he got in a bad way after learning about the deaths of some of friends in the Dorvan system. Sani cracked the shuttle up a couple of times. We told him he had to go back for retraining before we'd let him fly again."

"I thought you weren't too particular about formal qualifications out here?"

"Formal qualifications? Who said anyone cared about those? The farmers won't let him touch their supplies until he proves that he can fly straight again."

Arna had been silent so far. She was short and dark haired, similar enough in appearance to her husband that she could have passed for his sister. Now she spoke up. "The job doesn't pay much, just a bit plus room and board. The first building around the back is where you'll bunk if you take the job. The room on the right as you go in is Sani's. You can use it until he gets back. All meals are in the main house. Meal times are six, noon and seven. If you're not there, you don't eat. Don't miss meals. Gren, our cook doesn't like it."

"Yes, ma'am," Tom replied automatically to the authority in her voice.

She wrinkled her nose at this response. Then she decided that he wasn't trying to put her on and let it pass. "Is that all you brought with you?"

"I didn't get much of a chance to pack," he explained dryly.

She accepted that too. "You'll find towels and extra blankets in your room. You'll need the blankets. It gets cold once the sun goes down. Remember that if you go for late walks."

Tom tried to figure out if there was another, hidden warning in that statement. He didn't know enough about this place to know for sure. "Are there any wild animals around for me to worry about?"

"Wild animals? Depends what kind you mean. Farther west is where you'll find the really dangerous ones. The wild animals around here won't bother you much. It's the people you meet outback that you need to worry about. They don't come way out this way to live because they're good at fitting in."

Tom understood _that_ warning.

"And that's not taking into account the ones who have other reasons for wanting to be this far away from the law."

She gave him a penetrating look to see if that provoked a reaction from the stranger they were planning to take in. When he didn't look guilty at the mention of the law, she nodded and waved the others back to work. Then she told her husband. "I'll leave him in your hands then. I've got my own work. The cows need tending to."

With her unvoiced endorsement of the new hire, Joh pointed Tom toward the house. "Come with me to the kitchen. You can leave your bag beside the door. I'll show you your room and introduce you to the others later. Right now you can give the cook a hand since there's not much else to do until everyone gets back from the outlying fields."

The house was as plain inside as it was outside. The kitchen took up the full back of the building with three large cooking units and three even larger cooling units set up around a square worktable off to one side of the kitchen. Several more long tables, set with chairs, filled the rest of the available space.

A tall, older man with a tattoo of a giant fish up one arm supervised the small group who were assisting him with the evening meal. His dour expression gave Tom no welcome. "Go away! Supper's not ready! No-one eats until supper's ready!"

Joh ignored the sour greeting. "Gren, this is Tom. He'll be doing the flying for us for a while. He can give you a hand today."

Gren considered Tom in a slightly less unfriendly way. "You know how to peel vegetables?" he asked.

"I guess so. I did a bit of outdoor cooking when I used to go camping."

"Close enough. Grab a knife and start on that pile over there. I need everything peeled before five-thirty. Vegetables get cut in half and put in the pot. The peelings go in that bag to be slops for the pigs. You got all that?" he asked suspiciously.

"I think so," Tom repeated. "Peeled and cut vegetables go into the pot. Peels go into the bag. Is that it?"

Gren grunted and turned back to oversee the rest of the preparations, Tom's presence in his kitchen was forgiven although not forgotten.

Tom's job was to fly supplies back and forth from the outlying farms. Most of these were located to the north and the east. There were a few to the south, none to the west. The hills affecting local wind patterns made take-offs and landings difficult for a pilot less skilled than Tom. Tom made it through any conditions and the people on the outlying farms were glad to have him.

Tom got a pair of second-hand overalls that he took to wearing around the farm. The workers made good-natured jokes about the new farmer. Tom joked right back.

Tom liked these people. They were much alike, all related to each other one way or another. They knew everything that there was to know about each other. Sometimes when Tom sat at the dinner table, it felt like everyone around him was talking in a kind of shorthand and he was missing a lot of the vital pieces.

Tom would hear that Reta was finally going to make up her mind about whether or not to marry the oldest son two farms to the north. Since everyone except Tom knew exactly who Reta was, who this son was and even what Reta's decision was going to be, this news didn't mean very much to him. Then there was the time someone mentioned what Ked had done to Alf on his eighth birthday. Everyone else burst out laughing and looked at Tom like he must be crazy when he didn't join in.

Tom learned to laugh at jokes he didn't understand, and to smile or look serious when everyone else did. They were good people. But sometimes he couldn't help but feel how much he didn't really belong.

Tom liked spending time with Gren in the kitchen. Gren was the only other person who was an outsider. Gren's talent for making crowd-pleasing meals out of simple farm fare made him an invaluable asset. Gren knew it too. He didn't let himself get talked into such foolishness as 'sharing recipes'.

When Gren talked, Tom didn't have to fill in the blanks. Gren didn't expect Tom to already know most of what he was talking about. Tom once asked him about his tattoo. Gren told him to "mind your own damn business." So Tom did.

Gren didn't stay angry with Tom. He seemed to enjoy Tom's company. He'd let him come in and sit in his kitchen more often than most people did. Gren would even take a break and pour them both a mug of a brown liquid that was deliciously close to real coffee. He'd sit and talk with Tom until it was time for both of them to get back to work. No snacks though, Gren was dead serious about his no food outside of meal times rule.

With steady work, fresh air and good food, Tom's nightmares left him alone for a while.

Not long after, Tom's luck changed again - for the worse.

He saw it coming when Joh walked out to meet him on his way back to his bunk.

"Stani's back," was all Joh had to say.


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning:** While I use T as a rating because of occasional story elements that fall within that range, these last two chapters contain more concentrated 'T-ness' than usual.

Falling Through the Cracks

Chapter 5

Tom knew from the start that his job with Joh and Arna would be a temporary one. He wasn't prepared for it to end so suddenly, or so soon. So now what?

"Is there some other kind of work I can do around here?" Tom asked Joh.

Joh shook his head. "You can't stay here. It's not just a question of Stani needing his space back. There's been more trouble with the Cardassians in the Dorvan system. Two of Arna's sisters have brought their families and come to live with us. That's how Stani got back so soon. They picked him up on the way in. And it's not just _us_ taking in family. Others in the area have relatives on Dorvan who will be coming soon. It's going to be crowded. There won't be jobs for anyone else – especially for someone with Starfleet connections."

Tom raised his eyebrows at that reference. Joh shrugged apologetically. "Stani found out when he was at the main base. He spread it around here before I had a chance to tell him to close his yap."

Tom winced at the thought of being labeled 'Starfleet' with the troubles building up.

Joh shrugged again. "I'm sorry, Tom. I'd keep you on if I could. It's just that things are always tight around here and family comes first. You know that."

Tom grimaced. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

Before Joh could figure out what to say, Tom spoke again. "Can I hitch a ride out on the shuttle that brought Stani and the others in?"

"It's gone already. The ships that come from Dorvan never stay here long. You won't get out that way. But there is a town farther out. We used to go there a lot, although I haven't been that way in years. You might be able to pick up work there. Talk to Gren. He's from there. He can tell you more than I can."

"I guess I'll have to do that."

"You can stay until tomorrow," Joh added. "After that we need the room back." Then he turned and went back into the house.

Tom walked around to the kitchen where Gren was having a quiet moment between meals. Gren gave his familiar unwelcome. "Supper's not ready. No one eats until supper's ready."

"I have to leave tomorrow, Gren," Tom said, sliding down on one of the chairs. "Joh says that you know a place where I could go."

Gren got up and poured another cup of his 'almost coffee.' He placed it on the table and sat down beside Tom. They drank in silence for a while. Gren studied Tom, measuring him against some invisible standard of his own.

"North-west of here there's a town. Shuttles fly out from there to the back hill country – at least they used to. In the middle of the town there's a bar. It doesn't look much like a bar, just an ordinary building with a big, yellow cutout in the shape of a mug hanging over the door. That's where the flights are set up. If you say that I sent you, you might get a job. The man who runs it is Yaddi. You remember that," Gren admonished Tom. "Don't let him make you call him Mr. Rudd."

It was good news, as far as it went. Something in the way Gren talked about the town made Tom suspect that there was more. "Gren? What is it that you're not telling me?"

Gren shook his head slowly. "I've been there and I got out. Here's much better. But if there's all you got, it will keep you alive and put food in your belly. And right now, Tom, 'there' is all you've got."

"Yeah. I guess so," Tom said dully.

"Look, some stuff you don't want to get into. But some stuff is just a bit rough around the edges. The town used to be more like a regular place. Shuttles used to fly from there to the city too. That stopped sometime after I left. But there's an old road at the far end of the field that will get you there," Gren pointed in that general direction. "Go through the tall trees and you'll find it. I've never walked it myself. I saved enough to get a ride out when I left."

Gren tugged at Tom's sleeve to make sure that he had his full attention. "You stick to the road. In the old days, when there was more ground traffic, they set up deflectors to protect travelers from the winds where the road crosses a stretch of the plains. It will be safe enough, if the deflectors are still working. Avoid strangers, if you can. Anyone you'd want to meet will shy away from you. Anyone that doesn't shy away is most likely someone that you don't want to meet." Gren stood up then, patted Tom on the shoulder and went back to his pots of stew.

In the morning Tom stood beside the kitchen door, watching family members go in for breakfast. Strangers with new faces stared at him with contempt, blaming him for their misfortunes. The faces that he knew turned aside in embarrassment. It was like being left on the sidelines, while everyone else got picked for a team. Tom had nothing to hide behind except a mask of indifference. He tried to tamp down the heat rising on his face.

Tom decided that he really didn't need breakfast badly enough to put up with more of this, although it probably wasn't too smart to head out without eating.

Tom couldn't help feeling bitter. He had given these people his best. They threw it back at him because he wasn't one of them. Tom was getting awfully tired of being thrown out with the garbage.

He hadn't gotten far when Gren came out after him. Gren walked along beside him, carrying a medium sized container. When they reached the end of the field, Gren pushed the package of food into Tom's hands.

"You can't give me this," Tom protested, "what about the rules?"

Gren stubbornly refused to take it back. "It's my kitchen, my rules."

Tom smiled at the tough softy. "Thanks, Gren. I appreciate it." Tom studied the route ahead of him, searching for appropriate parting words. "So, what's the name of this place I'm heading to? I didn't think to ask yesterday."

"West Village," Gren answered straight faced.

Tom wrinkled his nose at a name that belonged on a mid-twentieth century suburb on Earth. As far as he was concerned, it had no business being attached to a frontier settlement on the edge of Federation space. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. The guy who stuck the pin in the map when they were setting up the colony was the same one who called the planet, Stone. He didn't have much of an imagination. The place was west of here. It was a village. So it was West Village." Gren stole a sly look at Tom's face. "It could have been worse," he said. "The guy could have named these places after himself. He was Ktarian and you know what their names are like."

Tom laughed. It was better than crying. He patted Gren on the shoulder, then left him behind to make his way down to the road.

At first the road was much like the one from the south that he had come in on, just longer. Tom found a bush to crawl under when it got dark. The sand was soft enough. The tough, leathery leaves scratched his hands, face and neck. He wished that he had thought to bring a couple of blankets with him. But taking them would have been stealing from Joh and Arna. Tom couldn't do that. In their own way, they had been good to him.

Tom doubled up his clothes and ate some of Gren's food before trying to sleep. In the morning, when it was warm enough, Tom set off again. He didn't know how long he'd have to walk. He rationed his food to make it last. Fortunately, Gren had provided him with an ample supply of water. By late afternoon he reached the end of the hills. In the distance, through the blowing sand he saw a flicker of lights from the town. Rather than cross the plain in the dark, he found shelter for the night under another neck scratching bush and set out in the morning.

Tom was glad that he saved this stretch for daylight. It was eerie walking with the sand blowing around the wind deflectors set along the road. He had never liked closed places. He'd stopped trying to figure out why. He just knew that he didn't like feeling trapped.

The deflectors created a tunnel through the winds. Getting lost wasn't an issue. It was the deflectors that were problematic. Some had weakened over the years. They probably hadn't had any regular maintenance since local traffic died off. Tom felt his stomach knot as he imagined the field walls collapsing around him, burying him in sand. At one point a branch from a tree flew at Tom, only to be deflected at the last minute. In several places the protected areas shrank so there was barely enough room for him to walk through the swirling clouds of sand and debris.

When Tom got close to town, the wind deflector protecting the strip just behind him lost energy and that part of the tunnel collapsed. He wouldn't be getting back to the farm that way. Tom wasn't going anywhere until the windy season was over. He felt like an animal that had been herded into a cage. But, with no other options open, Tom headed on into town.

The buildings in the town were much like the buildings on the farms, compact, solidly built. That's where the similarities between the two settlements ended. There were no children playing or picking berries in the town, no women either as far as Tom could see. The wind deflectors were set on low, possibly to conserve energy. The winds, although reduced in strength, whistled through the streets, scouring all the color out of the walls.

The outer buildings were abandoned. The town might have been larger at one time. It was now shrunken and withered. There were few signs of life on the streets. The only living being that Tom came across as he made is way through the town was more like a bundle of hair and rags than a person. It scuttled away from him and disappeared around a corner.

There were signs of decay even at the center of town. A medical center and a school were locked up, no longer in use. Tom found the building with the yellow mug and pushed the door open. The room inside was large for a bar in a place like this. A raised podium at one end was a clue to the building's original function. The auditorium floor was divided into sections, the bar on one side, a food and supply store in the middle and what appeared to be a medical station set up near the podium.

Some of the missing townsfolk were gathered inside. They drank, hunted through the piles of food, tools and clothes, or, in one case, sat to get treatment for a gashed arm. They were a grim looking lot wearing sand scarred clothes and scruffy faces.

One man stood out in contrast to the rest. He was the only one who was clean-shaven, the only one whose jacket and pants weren't coated with the sandy dust that stuck to everyone else's clothing. He was browbeating two assistants and sneering at anyone who spoke to him. This had to be Yaddi.

Yaddi scowled rather than sneered when he saw Tom approach. It wasn't an improvement. Tom recognized the type. He was one of those who were convinced that they were cut out for better things and so would always be dissatisfied with what they had. He made everyone who worked with him miserable too. Like it or not, he was the man Tom had come to see. Tom kept his bag close to his side and made his way through the crowd to the counter.

"Are you Yaddi?" Tom demanded.

The man didn't appreciate the inquiry. "Who wants to know?" He growled.

"Gren sent me. He said you might be able to use a pilot."

"I'm Yaddi Rudd, Mr. Rudd to you. I decide if I want to use you, not Gren. How is he anyway? Does he still have that snake tattoo on his leg?"

"Never saw a snake, only a fish and that was on his arm. And I don't need any 'Mr. Rudd'. Gren said that I should deal with 'Yaddi.'"

"Just checking to make sure you really met Gren."

"So now you know. Gren said I might get a piloting job here," Tom returned to the point that was most important to him.

"You any good?"

"I flew for the farmers until their old pilot came back. Gren saw me fly. _He_ thinks I can handle the job."

"Good enough." Apparently the town and the farms had that much in common. A personal recommendation carried weight. "I'll give you a try and see for myself." Well, maybe not _as much_ weight.

Yaddi pulled on a heavy cape and led Tom to a well-guarded building near the edge of town. Inside, a makeshift hanger housed a large shuttle that was made to look like a rust bucket. The rust was a veneer, expertly applied. Tom could tell that, underneath, the chassis was solid. As soon as Tom sat behind the controls, he knew that she would have no trouble managing the wind currents. She was powerful, maneuverable, and probably really fast.

Yaddi sat beside him and watched while Tom took the shuttle through her paces.

"Where do you want me to go?" Tom asked.

"There are sets of coded beacons that mark the routes to the mines. Pick one and take us out and back. Don't deviate far from the route."

"What happens if I do?"

"If you ever find out, I'll know I can't use you."

The shuttle was a real beauty, gliding smoothly along the currents and riding the up drafts to perfection. Yaddi was satisfied enough with Tom's flying to take him on.

More than that, Yaddi was impressed enough with Tom's skills to use his private communication system at the bar to send a message to his boss. The organization was always on the look out for talent. If he found them a prize like this pilot, that might be _his_ ticket out of this hellhole too.

"This guy can handle all the runs," he reported in. "He's way better than anyone else we've got."

"So you say." His boss wasn't easily impressed. He didn't dismiss potential resources out of hand either. "Have you hooked him yet?"

"Not yet. He just got here. It won't take long, though. He's got nowhere else to go."

"All right," Yaddi's superior agreed. "Get back to me when he's ready to reel in. I'll have a look and see if we can use him."

"I'm telling you, this one is a top level prospect. He'll be perfect on the hazardous Omari and Zeleean routes. If you bring me out to the front office, I guarantee that I can find you personnel even better than this one."

"I'll think about it. Let's see how this works out first. Keep me informed."

"Yes, of course."

Yaddi could barely contain his delight. He spent the rest of the day making private plans for a glorious future in one of the organization's cushier offices.

In the meantime, Tom had a job. The funds he earned for his flights covered his food and the rent for a small room behind the bar. It was expensive. He didn't have any other choices available to him. Tom saved what he could. He could have saved more if he never needed a new pair of socks, or wanted to clean his clothes. Everything here cost money and nothing was cheap.

Yaddi had Tom make three or four flights a week to the various mine sites. The winds around the town were stronger than around the farms, but steadier too, more predictable. Tom helped with the loading and usually flew back the same day.

The miners went across the plain to the hills in the same battered ground car that used to pick up the minerals that they dug out of the ground. The mine workers were a mixed bag. Many were like Gren, tough on the outside, decent enough inside. Others were ugly all the way through. Tom avoided those. The friendlier ones remembered Gren. Tom's sociable nature and his ties with Gren broke the ice. He made use of the lessons he'd learned at the farm to blend in. He laughed at unfunny jokes and unfunny stories. He swaggered with the best of them. They accepted him, let him join in at their tables and drink a beer or two with them.

"Man, he could cook! Yaddi was mad as a Stellian turgut when he left. That's when he cut off all traffic that wasn't in a company vehicle." One miner confided to Tom.

"Company?" Tom asked.

The miner checked to see if anyone had overheard him. "Forget that I brought that up. The less you know about the company, the better off you'll be. What you need to know for now is that all the shuttles and ground cars are company owned. You try to take them more than five kilometers from the signal beacons – the engines die. That can be messy if you're in the air. Even in a ground car there's nowhere to go. Yaddi doesn't do search and rescue. When it's safe we retrieve the cargo and clean what's left out of the cockpit."

Tom had already seen what was left of a body after a bad crash. He suppressed the visual image that came to mind. "Is that why you guys stay – because you can't get out?"

The miner shook his head. Tom suddenly realized that he was a lot younger than he had thought him to be. It was the beard and the clothes, and the weariness in his eyes that had made Tom think he was older. "I can't go back. None of us can. Never mind why." The young miner smiled a rare smile. At that moment he looked even younger than Tom. "It's not so bad when you have a team. We help each other. It's not a bad life for those like us." The miner picked up on the interest in Tom's face and acted quickly to stifle it. "We're full," he stated flatly, his youth once again blanketed under heavy years. "We don't take in newcomers."

Tom found that last statement true of all the groups willing to talk to him. They were full of advice, especially about not getting too far into company business. "It's a big operation around here," One grizzled miner told him. "They leave us alone because we're cover. They got their own kind of mining going on. Once you get in with them they don't let go of you – ever. Somebody asks you to carry the yellow packages, you say 'no'. You got that?" But no one offered to let Tom onto a team.

Tom's job kept him busy enough. One of its main advantages was that it put him off limits to a group of thugs who roamed the streets and intimidated anyone who went out on their own. Sometimes they did worse. Their primary target was a band of old men who were left behind when most of the town was abandoned. They had a hiding place somewhere and came out when it was safe to scrounge through the trash for food scraps and other treasures. If the goons caught one of these alone, they showed no mercy.

Once, after Tom had been in town a few weeks, he came across the scene of one of these attacks. The goons had already gone. Tom found an old man who was barely breathing after enduring acts of unimaginable cruelty. Tom used up the credits he had saved to pay Yaddi to treat the man's injuries. The man died anyway. No one else seemed to care or even notice. They winds quickly scrubbed the blood off the ground where he had fallen.

The winds back in San Francisco were strong too. They whistled past Owen's ears and down his neck. He pulled up the collar on his rarely used Starfleet-issue greatcoat. He usually rode one of the official shuttles or transported directly where he needed to go. Today he wanted to get away from Starfleet. He'd asked Nicole to cancel his afternoon appointments, grabbed his coat and told her he would be back in a couple of hours. That was as far away from Starfleet as an admiral could really get.

This morning, Owen had received the initial report from Starfleet Intelligence. They'd tracked the ship that Sandrine had named to one belonging to the eldest daughter of the Chancellor on a planet near the Cardassian border. Officials on Aldef indignantly denied that the Lady Ildana had been anywhere near Earth. The metallurgy and design of the ship that underwent minor repairs in Dijon told a different story.

Fortunately, the lady hadn't bothered to obliterate her trail. She'd only aimed for plausible deniability. The ship in question might look like hers and the owner did bear an uncanny resemblance to her. However, the name, the clothes and the behavior were all different. The similarities were a mere coincidence. No one dared to contradict her.

Starfleet Intelligence reported that Tom was not with the ship when it landed on Aldef. Unofficial sources were retracing the ship's route. The Federation didn't want to risk ruffling the feathers of a friendly, government that had managed to maintain its independence despite its proximity to aggressive Cardassian neighbors.

Owen let the wind push him over to the wall that protected pedestrians from the rocky shore below. The view was spectacular. Golden Gate still spanned the bay. Despite having been rebuilt more than once, the bridge looked the same as it did in the stills that survived from the end of the twenty-first century. Fortunately the hotel and the casino that had once towered above the rocks on Alcatraz were long gone.

There were scars though. If you looked closely, you could see the scars.

The tide raced in. The wind nipped at the surface of the water and made small splashes of white. The ocean was one of the few things on Earth that remained wild despite man's attempt to tame it. People explored its depths. They poked, prodded, measured and built entire communities under its waters. They polluted and then expended massive amounts of energy to repair the damage. In spite of all this, the ocean held on to its mystery and its power.

Owen remembered other waters, other shores. He remembered one sheltered beach covered with soft, warm sand. There, he had helped Tom to launch homemade boats of twigs and string. The fragile vessels struggled on the outgoing swells to ride the waves and venture into the unknown.

Owen found himself thinking more and more about those early days when he had shared private time with his son. It saddened him to realize how long ago that was. They were among the last days that he had spent with Tom without considering first his son's future as a Starfleet cadet and a Starfleet officer.

Owen had long ago stopped listening when Tom talked about the sea. He had stopped paying attention to _any_ of Tom's non-Starfleet interests. Owen had no room for anything in his relationship with his son but Tom's Starfleet career. Tom was going to be the Paris who was stronger than Owen had been under pressure from the Cardassians.

Julia had often tried to tell him other things about Tom, like his interest in skiing. Owen shook his head. He hadn't listened to her either. He should have gone out on the slopes with Tom. They could have shared some laughs at the old man and had a beer afterwards. Owen would have had other memories besides the resentment in Tom's eyes when his father turned family dinners into a venue for Starfleet lectures.

When Owen read the intelligence report this morning, he didn't think about Tom's rank or his career. All he thought about was seeing Tom again. All he cared about was Tom coming home safe.

Standing alone beside the water, Owen thought that when Tom got back they should take another walk on the beach. If Tom talked about 'cool' B-movies, this time Owen would listen. They'd make new memories to add to the ones that were so dusty and old.

There was plenty of dust on Stone, dust on the ground, dust in the air, dust in the soul.

Yaddi was pleased. He usually didn't interest himself in Ral's more disgusting activities. As long as Ral did what he was told to do on the job, that's all that mattered. This time though, Ral's fun had turned out to be useful. Tom had wasted his savings fixing up that useless scrap of filth that Ral, Ekon, Jwed and the others had left in the streets. With the loss of his savings, Tom should be more responsive to his offer to get away from this dead-end dump and fly for the company.

Yaddi arranged his desk carefully. He put out a few PADDs so he would appear busy and important, but not so many that he would look disorganized. Then he instructed Ral to get Tom. He might be pushing Tom too soon, but Yaddi was impatient and didn't want to wait. Besides if the 'carrot' didn't work, there was always the 'stick'. He'd given Ral other instructions as well, just in case.

Tom was mildly curious about being called to see Yaddi in his office. After that first day, he'd gotten his flight instructions at the hangar. Whatever it was couldn't be bad news. Or maybe it could. Yaddi was putting on a pretty good show, pretending to be in a jovial mood.

"Tom! Come in. Sit down."

Tom sat down in the chair that Yaddi had brought in for him and then waited to see what Yaddi would do next.

Yaddi stared across at Tom, trying to remember to smile. "So, how are you doing?"

"Fine?" Tom tried out the next line in this artificial conversation.

"Good, good," Yaddi approved. "I've been thinking…"

Tom held back the quips he was tempted to make. "You do that once a year do you? Don't strain yourself on my account," were a couple that came to mind. At least Yaddi was getting to the point he'd called him in here to make.

"I can tell that you're like me, not the rest of these losers. We deserve more than a hole like this place."

Tom tried not to gag at the thought of ever becoming like Yaddi.

Yaddi took his silence for agreement and went on. "I have a proposition for you. Instead of spending your life hauling ore, how'd you like a chance to join a first class operation? I mean really first class, they give their top workers the best of everything."

"And what would I have to do in exchange for getting this _wonderful_ opportunity?" Tom hoped the sarcasm in his voice wasn't too obvious.

"Not much, you'd still be hauling cargo, just for the company on company runs. You could start here with a few of their yellow packages added to your runs."

Tom froze. This is what he'd been told to stay away from. This is what everyone warned him against doing. Tom chose his words carefully. "That sounds like a very good offer. I think I'll pass."

Yaddi dropped his smile. "You might want to reconsider that."

"I'm satisfied with the way things are."

"That could change."

"I'll take my chances."

Yaddi got to his feet and raised his voice, "Ral, get him out of here."

"Hey! I've paid my rent!"

Yaddi's face twisted, "I'm fumigating today."

Ral grabbed Tom by the arm to pull him to his feet. Tom shook him off and made his own way out the door. When Tom stepped into the street, Ral stepped out with him. The main door closed and locked behind them.

Tom made his way across town to the hangar to see if he could stay there for a while. It was locked too. The streets were empty. Correction, Ral, Jwed, Ekon and several others were standing at the corner of the street, watching him. When Tom moved, they moved too. Tom got the message. He knew what was up.

Yaddi had chosen his time well. There was no one else around at this time of day, only Tom and those on the hunt. Tom considered his options. He could put up a fight. That would help, if demonstrating that he was more trouble than it was worth would make a difference. But that wasn't the case. They'd been given a job to do. They weren't backing down no matter what he did. There was also no question of escape. From the moment Tom had arrived, he'd known there was nowhere for him to go.

Maybe he should have accepted Yaddi's offer. He'd adapted to changing circumstances before. But in his heart, Tom knew that it was different this time. There was no kidding himself. This wasn't about fudging shades. This was about crossing the line, the one between a man who could be paid off and one who could stand to look at his own face in the mirror.

Ral and the others toyed with Tom for a while, herding him from street to street. Tom didn't waste energy running. But he stayed on the move. He felt the surface of the walls to see if he could get a handhold and scale one of the buildings. The surfaces were scoured smooth by years of winds. He tried the doors – just in case. He had no luck there either.

Tom knew immediately when the game changed. A shout went up, answered by another off to one side. Playtime was over. They were closing in. Tom picked his spot, wall for his back, a space narrow enough to restrict the number of attackers coming in at one time, but wide enough to give him some room to maneuver.

Tom held his position and waited, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He couldn't see them yet, but he could hear them coming. They were a wolf pack and had picked up his scent. He couldn't hold out forever against so many. It would be wiser for him not to resist.

Some came at him from the left, the rest in from the right. Hands grabbed and pulled. Tom tried to force himself to stay limp. But it just wasn't in him to give up without trying to fight back. He cursed himself for a fool even as he lashed out with a blow that doubled Jwed over.

Jwed's companions screamed in outrage. If Tom had little chance before, he had none now. Cold fear clenched his gut. He fought in desperation, yelling and flailing against hands grabbing him, dragging him out into the open and pushing him to the ground. He heard one of them yell in alarm, "Shit! What are you guys doing? Yaddi's gonna be ticked!"

The one who was closest to Tom stuck his chin out defiantly. "Who the hell cares?"

Some of the others nodded in agreement. A couple had real nasty smiles on their faces.

Tom groped the dirt behind him to find something to use as a weapon. There was nothing. They smelled victory and closed in. Tom's leg twisted under him in the dirt, He couldn't see anything now but faces and fists and feet. The nightmare went on and on until one of them got careless and knocked his head against a wall and the noise began to fade.

Darkness descended. There was nothing merciful about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Falling Through the Cracks

Chapter 6

Starfleet Intelligence located Tom Paris on Stone, one of a number of planets that were scattered along both sides of the Cardassian border. None of these systems held much interest for Cardassia or for the Federation until each side suspected that the other wanted to move in. Their controversial peace treaty carved this space into two sections that made little sense to the people who lived there, but had inescapable and lasting consequences for them.

The situation on Stone was complicated by the fact that two powerful cartels had set up independent operations at either end of the planet. One ran its operations out of the population center in the south. The other was concentrated around the mines in the north. The two got on peaceably enough and between them kept Cardassian and Federation authorities at bay. In addition to all this, the latest word out of Stone was that the Maquis had taken advantage of the planet's no-man's-land status to establish a presence there too.

According to early reports, Tom was settled in for the time being. The problem was going to be to get him out without attracting unwelcome attention. If word got out that Starfleet was interested in pulling Tom Paris off Stone, it could actually put him in danger. The best chance for his continued safety lay in Starfleet's apparent disinterest.

Intelligence was preparing to insert an undercover team in the northern town where they'd found Tom. What they didn't report to anyone outside the department was that they intended to make full use of this opportunity to pick up information about the various operations on Stone and gather as much intel as they could before extricating the admiral's son.

It was quiet at the bar. Lights were off on the podium and over in the merchandise sections. Yaddi was closing early tonight. Ral and the other ring leaders sat around a table, waiting for Yaddi to finish up in the back. Yaddi was not happy.

It was dark in the room behind the bar. Yaddi didn't need the light anymore. He'd dealt with the worst of the internal injuries. He'd knitted bones and cleaned away most of the blood. The rest could wait. Some damage was useful. After all, he had wanted to set up an object lesson.

On his low cot, Tom was aware only of the pain shearing through him, cutting into his leg, his head, his ribs and other places inside and out. It screamed at him, demanding his attention, tearing logical thought from his mind. Something cold hissed at his neck and the sharpness subsided into jarring ache. His consciousness crawled back up from the darkness and he made sense out of voices arguing outside his door.

"I told you, 'no permanent damage'!"

"So fix it," came a sullen reply.

"Great! Like that's easy to do. All right, all right! Just tell me what happened. The boss will want to know what went wrong and _he's_ too far out of it to tell me much."

"Yeah, well, it was going like it was supposed to," the voice explained. "We set it up and got him cornered. Then he got Jwed, real good. We got mad and Ekon took it into his head to have some fun."

Tom's hands fumbled for the blankets and pulled them up around his ears. He buried his face in the hollow of the pillow. He didn't need to hear the rest. He slipped into a sleep plagued by shattered images and random noises. When he opened his eyes again, it was light and Yaddi was back with another dose of medication.

"Why are you doing this?" Tom asked. "I thought you weren't the Florence Nightingale type."

Yaddi stared at him.

Tom made a mental note to cut back on the Earth-centric references. "The medical treatment," he clarified, "Why'd you patch me up? I thought you didn't waste resources on Ral's play things."

This, Yaddi understood. "I'm keeping track of expenses. Nothing's free. You owe me. I expect to get my money back. Remember that, if you think about cutting out on me." Yaddi turned aside to pick up another hypospray.

Tom caught Yaddi's wrist before Yaddi could give him the dose. "What's in it?" Tom demanded to know.

Yaddi blinked at Tom's question. "It's for the pain."

"How much will it cost me?" Tom asked.

Yaddi frowned. "Why? You think you can buy any somewhere else?"

"I know I can buy a lot of beer for what you're probably charging me. Alcohol will do me just as well for pain as that stuff. Anything I don't absolutely need, - don't give it to me."

Yaddi put the hypospray back in his kit. "I took care of all the major damage. You still have deep bruising. It will take some time for everything to finish healing. It would go easier on you with this." Yaddi pointed to the hypospray. "But if this is the way you want it, that's fine with me."

Tom kept to his resolve to refuse any more pain medication. Alcohol was not only cheaper, it had fewer strings attached to it.

When Tom got back on his feet, he picked out a table beside the bar's far wall. He'd get a beer and sit where no one could sneak up on him. When he'd checked to make sure he was safe, he'd lean back and close his eyes to shut out the grimy world around him. In his imagination he saw other times, other places. Not home though, and not Sandrine's. He didn't want to sully those memories by associating them in any way with this place. But there was a little bar in Paris on the left bank. He went there sometimes. When Tom closed his eyes, it was spring. The street artists were setting up for the tourists. Some of the better ones who didn't care about the tourists offered rare treasures for sale.

The miners learned to leave Tom alone when he was in one of these moods. Although one of the friendlier ones sometimes bought him a drink and left on his table where he would see it later.

Yaddi put Tom back on his old flight schedule. At first Yaddi did it only to assure himself that Tom's skills hadn't suffered from the beating. He kept Tom flying because Tom didn't drink when he had a flight. Yaddi was starting to worry that Tom would no longer be useful to him if he kept drinking.

Tom didn't drink nearly as much as Yaddi thought he did. Tom looked as bad as he did because of the bruising around his eyes and the fact that he wasn't getting much sleep. Alcohol helped with the pain. It also brought back old nightmares. Tom drank anyway because the old nightmares pushed away the new dreams that had begun to whittle away at his sanity.

When Tom tried to sleep without taking a drink, jagged images of hands and faces ripped the line between sleep and waking. Night after night he sat up shivering, trying to figure out if the images that came into his head were real memories or twisted fantasy. Tom preferred to put up with his old nightmares. They gave him a few hours rest before sending him into the fire. And at least there, he knew for sure what had really happened.

The bar was becoming downright popular. A couple of strangers showed up, dressed to fit in with the miners. Their similarity to the miners was only skin deep, sort of like the rusty veneer on the hull of the company shuttle. Tom didn't know what to make of them. Yaddi didn't like them. That was a point in their favor. But when Tom showed interest in talking to them, they left the bar before he got close enough to start a conversation.

Another group appeared more promising. Yaddi wasn't happy to see them either, one point for them. They reminded Tom of Joh and the rest of the farmers, the same build and general coloring – just tougher somehow. That similarity was another plus in Tom's way of figuring. The man Tom thought must be their leader had a tattoo on his face. It reminded Tom of Gren and inclined Tom to trust him. Tom knew this was a dumb reason to form an opinion about a person he didn't know. He didn't care. He'd made stupider decisions in his life.

However, this time Tom couldn't get anywhere close to the outsiders. Ral and his pals took care to prevent any chance of that happening.

It didn't take long for Yaddi to call Tom back into his private office. Yaddi was getting nervous. These strangers were coming in from somewhere. They weren't coming through company channels. Yaddi knew that much. There was no way of telling how these new elements might interfere with his plans. Yaddi wasn't taking any chances. He was moving ahead now!

Neither Tom nor Yaddi sat down. It wasn't that kind of 'let's pretend we're civilized' meeting. Yaddi put on his most serious 'I mean it' expression. "There's a yellow flight tomorrow. You're taking it out."

"I am, am I?" Tom shot back. "What, not even a 'pretty please'?"

Yaddi scowled, whether from the levity or because he didn't understand the reference, Tom wasn't sure. But Yaddi had set Tom's back up with his easy assumption. Tom could be as stubborn as an Organian relk when he chose to be.

Yaddi was taken aback by the mulish expression on Tom's face. He hadn't expected any more resistance from Tom. Yaddi searched his mind frantically for an ace card to play. When he found one the confident sneer on his face gave credence to his lie. "You think you're not already involved? I've put too much effort into you to leave things to chance. We've been putting packages of the yellow powder in with your loads all week. You're in as deep as you can get. Even if you try running to the authorities, they'll not just drag you back here because you owe me money, they'll lock you up on one of those cesspools that they call prisons."

Tom howled in outrage at Yaddi, and at himself. He grabbed Yaddi and slammed him against the wall. Tom wanted to smash his head, to find release for the pain of this smothering wave of guilt.

"Yaddi gasped for breath. "I call Ral in and you're dead!"

Tom's eyes were flint and fire. He slowly released his grasp on Yaddi and let his feet touch the floor. Tom put a false smile on his face. "That wouldn't be too smart, would it? Think what your company bosses would say." Then he brushed off Yaddi's jacket the way he had seen in his movies and walked out the door. That part about Yaddi's bosses was a stab in the dark. Tom didn't see Yaddi as management-level material. From Yaddi's pale face, it seemed like his guess was a good one.

Tom left the bar to stalk the streets. He desperately wanted to find something else to hit. A shout off to one side stopped him short. He turned in time to see one of the ragged men round a corner, breathing hard and running as fast as he could. The old guy was too busy looking behind him to see Tom until it was too late. He stumbled over his own feet and would have fallen if Tom hadn't reached out instinctively to catch him and hold him up. But when his hands closed around the man's jacket Tom found himself squeezing tighter and tighter. He wanted to rip it apart. Tom wanted to rip _him_ apart.

The old man's pursuer rounded the corner and ground to a halt. The old man took advantage of this diversion to strike out at Tom with his parcel. "You leave me alone! This is mine! You can't have it."

In shock, Tom let go and stepped back from what he had almost done. The man tried to slip back the way he had come. But Ekon was there now, blocking his escape. He looked around wildly, then shrank back and cowered against the wall. Ekon grinned and started toward both of them.

Tom sensed danger for himself as well as for the old man. He didn't like feeling this vulnerable. He wasn't going to be anyone's victim ever again.

Tom pulled himself together and stepped between Ekon and the old man. He brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve where the ragged creature had touched him and sneered. "What could someone like _you_ have that would be of any interest to _me_." Tom's voice was as cold as he could make it. "I just don't like having to step over bodies in the street. I don't like stepping around them any better. So get moving and crawl back where you came from."

The man ducked around Tom and scuttled off to his hidey-hole. Tom let the wind blow on his face to account for the red rising there. He glared at Ekon until Ekon backed down. Then Tom made himself walk slowly back to the bar.

Tom felt physically ill, almost as bad as he had when he'd realized that he'd killed his friends. He wanted to deny what Yaddi claimed he had done. It was no use. He couldn't do that anymore. He _didn't_ check all the cargo. They could have put anything they wanted into the hold without him knowing. That didn't absolve him of responsibility. He was the pilot. It was his job to know everything about his ship. If he didn't know, it had to be because secretly he didn't want to know. Wasn't that what he'd done when he covered his ears to avoid hearing the truth about the assault? What a coward he was!

Tom didn't go inside the bar. He found the alley at the back and uploaded the remnants of his lunch. When Tom was finished, slimy paths trailed down the side of the wall to mingle with the dust on the ground. Tom slid down to sit in the dirt beside the vomit. He slumped forward and for the first time since he left Earth, Tom let himself cry.

But even the sand in the wind wasn't strong enough to scrap away his shame. His tears did nothing to cleanse him just as spewing his guts did nothing to purge the disgust he felt inside. He was everything he'd hoped he would never be. When he'd had to choose between right and wrong, when it came right down to it, he'd taken the easy way out. He'd sold his integrity in return for his personal safety. That had to be what he'd done, wasn't it? Didn't that say everything there was to say about the kind of man he really was?

Tom didn't know the answer. He wasn't sure about anything anymore. It wouldn't be until years later that he found a different answer. On a water planet halfway across the galaxy, he had a choice between making the safe call, or putting everything that he'd worked so hard for at risk in order to do what he believed was right. Only then did he find an answer that made him feel whole again. But that was years away. Right now, all Tom knew was that he could barely stand the thought of having to live with himself.

Tom sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. This was getting him nowhere. He snorted in derision at the revolting mess he had made. Emptying his guts didn't make him feel any better now than it had the last time he'd done it at Sandrine's. Plus he'd given himself a pounding headache.

Tom pulled himself to his feet and did the best he could to clean himself off. He wiped his face with the inside of his sleeve and let the ever-present dust erase the rest of the evidence. What he needed to do was to replace the liquid and the calories that he had just wasted in the dirt. Tom checked his reserves. He would have earned more this afternoon, if he'd been left on his regular flight schedule. He still had enough for a bottle of the sugary crap that Yaddi kept at the bar.

Tom adjusted his sleeve and sauntered casually into the street. The tough farmers were back. Two were standing guard at the entrance to the bar and a couple more leaned against the wall across the street. Tom was sure that there were more of them around, staying out of sight. Tom checked them up and down. They returned the favor.

There was little of 'Farmer Tom' left in him. Tom's eyes could still surprise you with their unexpected color. But they held a weary cynicism that made them dull and cold. He'd let his beard grow, such as it was. It cut the wind and protected his face from the worst of the blowing sand. Since the assault, he'd lost weight. His clothes hung loosely on his arms and legs.

Tom tried a 'hello' on the pair at the door. His options were pretty much non-existent and he was willing to give anything a try. Tom didn't even get a grunt back. He was too tired to push the issue. He pushed the door open instead.

When Tom entered the bar, he found a matching pair of guards on the other side of the door. Several more from the same group were scattered around the room to complete their deployment of personnel. The pseudo-miners were back too. Hell, the bar was getting busier than Jupiter Station! Ral and his group were stretching themselves thin to keep the outsiders contained.

Tom made straight for the service counter. No one stopped him. He picked out his own bottle from behind the bar and poured its contents into a beer mug. He didn't see any reason to advertise who it was that had made the mess in the alley. He threw his payment on the counter and headed for his regular table. This time he didn't make it across the room. Two of the big farm guys pushed Jwed and Ekon out of the way and stepped in front of Tom.

"We'd like a word with you," one of them told Tom.

"So?" Damn it! What kind of games were they playing? Did they have to play them with him when he felt so rotten?

"So, we'd like a word with you _now_," the guy said, making each word very clear. "This way." They ushered Tom over to a table where the guy with the tattoo was waiting.

Tom grabbed a chair, turned it around and straddled it to sit down. He put his mug on the table and crossed his arms on top of the back of the chair. It wasn't all for show. He could get up faster this way if he needed to get out in a hurry. Tom was torn between hoping that this could be a way out for him, and trying like hell _not_ to get his hopes up. He opened with a noncommittal stab at conversation.

"So, I hear you invited me over for a drink," he told Mr. Tattoo. He hadn't yet been introduced to Chakotay. He made up his own name for him.

Chakotay glanced up at the two standing behind Tom. They must have indicated a negative response. "Not the way I hear it," he told Tom.

"Okay then. Why _am_ I here?"

"We heard about you from Joh. He said that you were a good pilot. We could use your help." Chakotay had his doubts about this one. From his appearance, he'd been on a few binges already. It was worth a try, though.

"Help with what?" Tom asked.

"I think you already have some idea. You'll have heard what's happening in the Dorvan system from Joh and Arna. We're trying to set things right."

"You're Maquis." Tom put that out for confirmation.

"That's right. My name is Chakotay. If you fly for us, you'll pilot my ship."

Tom rubbed his forehead. Damn, again! This could get him off Stone just to land him in a whole other pile of trouble. But having something real to fight would be a whole lot better than scaring the hell out of some poor scavenger. Honestly though, they had him at 'we could use your help'. He had a hard time turning down anyone who asked for help. It was his soft spot.

His problem was that he had a chunk of medical expenses and a few beers still left on his tab. Yaddi charged exorbitant rates, but a debt was a debt. And despite the fact that Yaddi was small in more ways than one, he clearly had powerful connections. Tom suspected that they could make trouble for the Maquis, if _they_ got Tom and Yaddi didn't get his money.

"Okay, I'm in. But you'll have to come up with enough funds to help me pay off my tab first."

Chakotay's opinion of Tom dropped considerably. "I wasn't offering you a paying job."

"I have bills to pay. Just give me enough money to pay Yaddi off and then I can do this job for you." Tom pulled his copy of his bill out of his pocket and showed it to Chakotay.

"That's a lot of money for a bar bill." Chakotay commented.

Tom was stung by the assumption that the bill was all for booze. He'd paid off some of Yaddi's medical charges. What was left was still high. Explaining the expenses meant disturbing the fragile control that Tom had so carefully established over memories of that waking nightmare. It meant sharing what he did remember with strangers. He couldn't do that, any more than he could make something up and lie about it. All he could come up with was, "Nothing in here is free."

Chakotay didn't think much of that lame explanation. His expression hardened as he counted out the funds to pay Tom's bill. " Yes I can see that nothing in here is free, - including you."

Tom flinched. It was like getting slapped in the face. But he couldn't deny what Chakotay had just said either.

"You can't drink like that if you work for us." Chakotay added.

That remark pulled the worst of Tom's attitude back into place. Tom's retort bordered on arrogance. "I can fly half drunk and still fly better than anyone else you'll ever see. But I don't drink that much and I never drink on the job."

Chakotay was not impressed. "Then you have expensive tastes. It must be a come down for someone like you to have to come and work for us. A word of advice, don't try your airs around the crew. Remember that there are people in the Maquis who don't take kindly to people with ties to Starfleet. It would make them very happy to see the last of you. But we've paid for you and we want our money's worth. So, get your things. We're leaving. Mike will go with you, just in case you take it into your head to change your mind, now that we've paid your tab."

Tom suppressed a bitter laugh. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go!

Mike wasn't a talker so Tom had his thoughts to himself while he gathered his belongings into the same bundle that he'd arrived with. So he was a hire-on, just like on the Afrinar, just like on the farm. Tom got that. This time he'd be ready when it was over. He wouldn't fool himself with delusions of loyalty and friendship. He'd do the job for them and give them value for their money. In return, like with so many of his so-called 'friends' at the Academy and at Starfleet, they'd get what they needed from him. When the job finished, or when someone who was one of their own came along to take over, he'd be cut loose - again.

Yaddi stood by helplessly while the Maquis escorted Tom out of the bar. They didn't waste any time getting out of there and back to their ship. The ship was parked in the semi-protected area behind the hangar. A contingent of Maquis stood guard. Most of them were women. Tom silently applauded the Maquis' decision not to bring the female members of their crew into a bar filled with men who hadn't seen women in years. Tom had only been cut off from female company for months and _he_ found himself gawking at them. He was embarrassed by his own reactions. He caught a couple of the Maquis giving him dirty looks and covered up his embarrassment with one of his cockier grins. That garnered him more dirty looks.

Fortunately Tom was soon able to turn his attention to the ship he was going to fly. He took a quick tour of the outside before he let himself be led inside to check out the controls on the bridge. This wasn't just a rebuild. It was a rebuild on a rebuild of a rebuild. They needed a whole lot of chewing gum and wax to hold this bucket together. Either that or they had one hell of an engineer.

Once everyone was on board, Chakotay snagged hold of Tom's arm and pulled him back from the helm. "I'll take it from here."

Tom pushed himself back into Chakotay's face. "You wanted a pilot. You got a pilot. You tell me who around here has more experience flying these winds than I have!"

Chakotay took a step back and considered Tom's point. "Fine! If you mess up, I'll be right here to take over. Mike will pull you out of that seat so fast you won't land until you're on the other side of the bridge!"

"Great, an audience, just what I need! Try not to breathe down my neck, will you?"

Tom sat down and tested the controls for take-off. There was a slight weakness in the thrusters. He adjusted to compensate for that and gently lifted the ship off the ground. The ship drifted a bit to port, he compensated for that too. "I see that you guys chew a lot of gum." He quipped.

Chakotay ignored Tom's comment. Mike didn't have to ignore it. It simply bounced off him and rolled to the floor at his feet.

Tom guided the ship through the turbulence around the wind deflectors and caught an updraft. He matched its angle of ascent and used that to reduce the strain on the ship's engines. When the wind veered off, he caught another updraft and rode it all the way up into the river of winds that surged through the upper atmosphere. One more adjustment and they were beyond the oppressive curtain of sand that shrouded most of the planet during the long windy season. Tom had a clear view of the stars once more. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch the velvet beauty of the dance of light. It had been so long since he had been high enough above the winds to see the stars.

Chakotay was impressed in spite of himself. This guy might be a pain in the ass. It would definitely be worth the effort to keep him around. Right now though, it looked like he could use a break to get settled in and cleaned up. "I'll take over," he stated firmly. "Mike, take him in the back and show him where to get cleaned up." Chakotay took another look at Tom. "Might get him something to eat too."

Tom's mask slipped back into place. He relinquished the helm and followed his, so far, regular keeper, Mike. Tom got the message. He was temporary. They didn't want him to have too much information about their route out of here. Tom reminded himself that he'd made a business arrangement. He'd taken their money. They told him where to fly. So fine, he'd play by their rules and not peek at the navigational co-ordinates on his way off the bridge. Later, when this stint with the Maquis was over, he'd move on, – no ties, no regrets, no looking back.

Back on Stone, Yaddi was not the only one who was put out by Tom's departure. Two Starfleet undercover agents, disguised as miners, were chagrined to realize that they had delayed too long and missed their opportunity to retrieve Tom Paris. They knew that it was going to be difficult to explain this misstep to headquarters. It was going to be even harder for headquarters to justify the team's blunder to Tom Paris's father.

Their unfortunate liaison officer was assigned to make the call to Admiral Paris. "Admiral, we lost him."

"What do you mean you lost him? I was informed that the situation was under control and that everything was arranged."

"We thought it _was_ all set. But before we could pull him out he was recruited into a Maquis cell."

"You had him under observation and let the Maquis pick him up right under your noses?" The admiral's tone was scathing.

"Yes, well, sometimes these things happen."

"It will be very interesting to read the report that explains exactly how this one _happened_, Commander."

"Of course, sir. We're working on it right now." They were in fact diligently at work to come up with a credible story to explain how they let Tom Paris slip through their fingers.

"What further plans do you have to find my son?" The admiral asked. He didn't hold out much hope that anything more could be done. Given the current political climate, joining the Maquis was one of the worst things that Tom could have done.

The commander's reply confirmed Owen's fears. "I'm sorry, Admiral. That's all we can do. Your son is gone."

Owen's spirit was tired, but his tone was steely. "I'll be going over every detail in that report, Commander. It had better be a good one." Owen jabbed at his screen to sever the connection. Years of control kept his expression firmly in check. The most he allowed himself to do was to close his eyes and lean back in his chair.

Nicole's voice came through from the outer office, "Admiral, is there anything I can do to help?"

Owen opened his eyes. "Thank you, but no. There's nothing that anyone can do, not now. I'll speak to Mrs. Paris myself. Could you reach her for me?"

"Of course, Admiral. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, Nicole. So am I."

Owen looked around at his empty office. It was filled with impressive _things_ that proclaimed an admiral's importance to the world. At this moment, all he saw in it was the ghostly figure of his son grinning at him, his young face shining with delight and his voice filled with laughter. "Dad, you've got a _secretary_!"

Lost.

Gone.

They were such hollow, empty words.

If Owen could remember how, he would have cried.

Epilogue:

Starfleet Intelligence didn't let their undercover work go to waste. They used the information collected on Stone to eventually insert an agent into Chakotay's cell.

None of this was any help to Tom Paris. But later, when the agent - an officer named Tuvok - disappeared along with the rest of Chakotay's crew, Starfleet pulled Tom Paris out of Aukland for a trip to the Badlands. There was really no need for them to take Tom away from Aukland. They could have gotten any useful information from him by interviewing him in prison.

Maybe someone inside Starfleet felt they needed to make this gesture to appease Admiral Paris. Maybe someone, somewhere inside the bureaucracy, figured that they owed Tom Paris at least this much.

Author's notes:

1. Tom and Owen Paris are both characters viewed in one way at the beginning of the series, and then another way later on - either because the characters evolve or because our perceptions of them change.

I dealt with some of the inconsistencies in Owen's character in the story, Admiral, Father, Dad. In this story, I continued the character's evolution, retrieving and developing some of the aspects that I have Tom attribute to 'Dad' in my earlier story.

I wanted to go back to this darker time in Tom's life to provide him with a set of experiences that could explain the negative opinion that he had of himself back then, an opinion that was shared by others early in the series. I wanted to do so in a way that connects plausibly to the character that we first meet on screen, as well as to the character that emerges as Tom experiences life on Voyager.

2. Not much is known about this period in Tom's life. In order to maintain as much flexibility as possible, I left some details vague, including the specific details of the assault and the exact amount of time that elapsed between the two milestone events in Tom's life.

I tried to respect facts that _were_ established in the series, so that Tom is drinking at this time and has 'bar bills'; he is angry enough to go out 'looking for a fight'; and he is in a bar when he is picked up by the Maquis. I moved the location of the bar off Earth because it seemed unlikely that the Maquis would take the risk and waste the resources to go to the heart of the Federation to recruit a pilot, even one as talented as Tom.


End file.
